In the story of Patroclus
no one survives, not even Achilles
who was nearly a god.
Patroclus resembled him; they wore
the same armour.
Zayir cuts through the crowd after him with no leonine prowl; he is pragmatic, a dagger that delves through the dancers as if through flesh. When he finds Cairo again, it is in a throng of dancers. Of course. With charismatic efficiency, Zayir cuts Cairo off from his partner as the next song begins to play.
Everything for Zayir is strategic. This is the first ploy of his tactics. The song is much more rapid, a violin straining into the night. Oh, it screams. He had hoped, and wanted, and known Cairo had made it out of the catacombs. But he lacked the courage, until now, to approach him.
(Because, Zayir, it was your fault) a voice whispers, from the recesses of his own mind. He smothers it for now, in this moment and instead presses his flank into Cairo’s. The brush is feather-light and incredibly brief. His body after so long of misuse, so many years of slumber is nearly electric with uncontainable power. His eyes are on fire; beneath the heat there is anger but a noble, self-sacrificial sort. The anger of a man who would burn for another, and let himself burn.
This, at least, is as it always has been.
This, at least, has not changed.
Zayir clings to it like a man drowning. Like the condemned upon the feet of a saint.
“Companion,” where Cairo’s eyes undo him, Zayir has always had power in his voice. He is a musician as well as a fighter, a singer in addition to a strategist. When he speaks, it is a lilting purr. “You know me better than that.”
I will not be teased.
But, of course Zayir would be. He expects it, and nearly relishes it. Those impassive eyes. The leonine manner in which Cairo left, so blatant, so... infuriating. It was the nature of their companionship. He adds, with a fox-like glint in his eyes, “I hope you don’t mind I stole the dance.” Quite literally. Zayir drops his wing and traces, ever so lightly, the tips of his contour feathers along the small of Cairo’s back.
"Speaks" || @
always in these friendships one serves the other, one is less than the other: the hierarchy is always apparent, though the legends cannot be trusted--their source is the survivor, the one who has been abandoned.
