something kissed by the wild
and loved by lightning
and loved by lightning
The leaves and twigs and wild herbs hanging in his hair mark the boy as less a Prince of Terrastella than one of the woodland fae. In his eyes gleams a wildness that has begun to grow and flourish as a flower of the field. All of Leonidas is blooming, the feathers upon his wings growing finer and longer, the way he no longer looks afraid but more at ease. Already independence and dark lonesome nights with just his sister has taught him the things he should truly fear.
And so, when Aster looks back to him and asks with her gaze, is it safe? The boy says nothing at all, but his gilded gaze - so much a mirror of hers - blazes just a little brighter. Aster steps within the house, the wild ivy reaching for the antlers that have begun to grow like a crown from her poll. Upon each of their heads their antlers are growing, little more than golden tangled roots arising like the tines of crowns.
They are royal fae children with no kingdom limited to stars and dusk but extended out to all of Novus. He would sleep in the mountainous halls of the gods and call it his own. He would sleep upon the island in the midst of Vitreus Lake and things its his own too. He would pluck bread from a stall within Solterra’s square and believe that he is entitled. Terrastella is no more home to him than the rest of Novus. Anywhere Aster is he names home.
So Leonidas is quick upon the steps his sister disappeared up. He is quick behind her through the door only slowing when his side is pressed to hers, when the feathers of their wings are tangled together.
A witch. A witch. He sees the glow of such a word shining up from Aster’s soul. He feels it in her heart as if it were her own. Slowly he turns his wildwood gaze upon the woman and his skull tilts to regard her. Were witches not supposed to look like crones? Corrdelia is not dark nor twisted nor bent, but tall and regal and pale as a dove.
The walls of the house set in close, close, close. It is dark and full of strange smells and the world reaches in through only a window. Leonidas looks to it and already his body yearns to run, to push his wings wide and cast out the walls that confine them. “Do you sleep in here?” Curious wonder slips like silver through his question. It shadows the crinkling of his nose. “How does the moonlight and the wind get in? Do you sleep alone?”
Slowly he peels himself from Aster and steps curiously forward. The fae boy passes a bed… bed... he has a name for it he can recognise the wooden frame and plush pillows and blankets upon it, but never has he thought to sleep upon one. He thinks beds within the woodland are better, with no walls and a roof of endless leaves and a sky struck moonlight-silver.
The boy moves beyond a bed to where fruits and teas and fruited teas all lie out fragrant and sweet. So many berries he already knows. So many that have coloured his lips black and red and blue as he steals them from the bushes he and Aster pass in their meanderings. He sees one he does not recognise and looks back to the pale witch, “Can I try this one? Then will you show us some magic?” And his eyes flit to Aster’s for he knows how much she will delight in such events.
@Aster @Corrdelia
