until every last star in the galaxy dies
He isn’t sure he wants to believe him - Pravda has already admit in the same breath that he is not a soldier, so what should he know about war? Or fighting? Or freedom? For a moment all he can do is stare at him, and all the things he wants to say but cannot find the words for are there in his gaze, begging for the stallion to see them.
”I read not,” he says. ”I can’t.”
And he turns away, because he doesn’t know how to say all the things he wants to.
So he’s thankful when Pravda allows him to change the subject, and the thought of bread makes him lift his head again, and the ocean that seemed to fill his chest slips away bit by heavy bit. ”Can we?” The question is slow, hesitant, the tone of a boy who does not yet know how to take things when he wants them. But there’s a shy sort of hope there, because even Sirius is wishing for the answer to be yes. ”Is allowed?”
He follows along behind him like a stray, folding too-large wings tightly against his sides when all he wants to do is stretch them out, and let them carry him to wherever he wants to go. His muzzle brushes along Pravda’s flank, pressing in closely as the crowd sweeps past them on either side, like Pravda is the only thing anchoring him in the fray, and the touch of his skin the only thing tethering him to the earth.
”No,” the words sound distant, like they don’t belong to him; the bread is distracting him. ”Flew ocean across I did. Here am I now.” He takes the loaf gingerly, as if afraid it might fall apart in his grasp before he gets a chance to realize it belongs to him.
His eyes flicker, from Pravda to the vendor to the bread, and back to Pravda.
“Pravda,” he is careful to echo the same syllables as the other stallion, afraid it would be rude to not. ”How come Denocte to did you?”
And then he lifts the bread to his mouth, but it’s only after he takes the first bite that he stops himself, and mumbles a half-coherent ”Thanks,” around it.
And while Pravda had called it bread, and it smelled like bread, and it looked like bread - it tasted unlike any bread he has ever tasted before.
”I read not,” he says. ”I can’t.”
And he turns away, because he doesn’t know how to say all the things he wants to.
So he’s thankful when Pravda allows him to change the subject, and the thought of bread makes him lift his head again, and the ocean that seemed to fill his chest slips away bit by heavy bit. ”Can we?” The question is slow, hesitant, the tone of a boy who does not yet know how to take things when he wants them. But there’s a shy sort of hope there, because even Sirius is wishing for the answer to be yes. ”Is allowed?”
He follows along behind him like a stray, folding too-large wings tightly against his sides when all he wants to do is stretch them out, and let them carry him to wherever he wants to go. His muzzle brushes along Pravda’s flank, pressing in closely as the crowd sweeps past them on either side, like Pravda is the only thing anchoring him in the fray, and the touch of his skin the only thing tethering him to the earth.
”No,” the words sound distant, like they don’t belong to him; the bread is distracting him. ”Flew ocean across I did. Here am I now.” He takes the loaf gingerly, as if afraid it might fall apart in his grasp before he gets a chance to realize it belongs to him.
His eyes flicker, from Pravda to the vendor to the bread, and back to Pravda.
“Pravda,” he is careful to echo the same syllables as the other stallion, afraid it would be rude to not. ”How come Denocte to did you?”
And then he lifts the bread to his mouth, but it’s only after he takes the first bite that he stops himself, and mumbles a half-coherent ”Thanks,” around it.
And while Pravda had called it bread, and it smelled like bread, and it looked like bread - it tasted unlike any bread he has ever tasted before.
notes: <3
