until every last star in the galaxy dies
Sirius turns his pale eyes back on Pravda, staring at him with all the intensity of a hawk. His words echo through his mind, like a puzzle he can’t find a solution to that he refuses to let go of.
It’s not a life for me.
Just something to dream about.
For Sirius, his dreams had always been something he wanted. They had been freedom, and the world, and a worthy cause. And he was determined to turn dreaming into doing. That the stranger was content to let his dreams stay dreams was confusing to him, and another reminder that he was not like the others.
But then it’s Pravda’s turn to ask the questions, and Sirius forgets (temporarily) about his confusion.
“Books train soldiers?” He snaps his attention back to Pravda in an instant, considering his words slowly. “...How?” Maybe it was because he had never learned to read, or maybe it was because he had never heard books and soldiers mentioned together in the same sentence before, but the idea of needing to read to learn to fight seems simultaneously outrageous and boring. And so he’s thankful when Pravda changes the subject, even if it’s only because of a distraction (gods know Sirius himself is easily distracted, too.)
He lifts his chin, frowning as he smells the air. Pravda moves on too quickly for Sirius to make sense of the scent, or to distinguish it from all the other scents surrounding them. The ocean seems to overpower them all, befuddling his senses.
“No,” he corrects the paint, even as he lifts his head skyward and continues puzzling over the air.
“Not to fight only. I want to protect.” To do something other than hunt, to use his skills for something better. It couldn’t make up for the things he had done, for the childhood he had endured, or the people he had already hunted - but it was a start.
“Bread,” he says suddenly, turning his head to look towards the market stands. “Is smell bread?”
It was oddly familiar, considering Sirius has only ever had stale bread before, never fresh.
It’s not a life for me.
Just something to dream about.
For Sirius, his dreams had always been something he wanted. They had been freedom, and the world, and a worthy cause. And he was determined to turn dreaming into doing. That the stranger was content to let his dreams stay dreams was confusing to him, and another reminder that he was not like the others.
But then it’s Pravda’s turn to ask the questions, and Sirius forgets (temporarily) about his confusion.
“Books train soldiers?” He snaps his attention back to Pravda in an instant, considering his words slowly. “...How?” Maybe it was because he had never learned to read, or maybe it was because he had never heard books and soldiers mentioned together in the same sentence before, but the idea of needing to read to learn to fight seems simultaneously outrageous and boring. And so he’s thankful when Pravda changes the subject, even if it’s only because of a distraction (gods know Sirius himself is easily distracted, too.)
He lifts his chin, frowning as he smells the air. Pravda moves on too quickly for Sirius to make sense of the scent, or to distinguish it from all the other scents surrounding them. The ocean seems to overpower them all, befuddling his senses.
“No,” he corrects the paint, even as he lifts his head skyward and continues puzzling over the air.
“Not to fight only. I want to protect.” To do something other than hunt, to use his skills for something better. It couldn’t make up for the things he had done, for the childhood he had endured, or the people he had already hunted - but it was a start.
“Bread,” he says suddenly, turning his head to look towards the market stands. “Is smell bread?”
It was oddly familiar, considering Sirius has only ever had stale bread before, never fresh.
notes: <3
