Azrael understood their affinity to the stars, for he too was drawn toward the sky with an inexplicable pull. If he could, the shed-star would leap into the inky blackness, leaving this mortal world behind and becoming one with Caligo’s stars. In death, the shed-stars are said to ascend once more to the heaven from whence they had come, each burning brightly as a new star in the sky. He liked the thought of it, wondering if those who had perished on that fateful day, found their peace now among the constellations. It was better than believing the alternative, that they had simply faded out of existence, their lives as inconsequential as an extinguished match, burning too fast before turning to smoke.
He stands quietly beside the stranger, both staring at the stars in silence, taking in the wonder of them. There are galaxies to witness here, patterns in the sky which had been passed through stories from generation to generation. He knew the tales, familiar as a mother’s song in his memory, but they did not stroke his curiosity tonight. Instead, he flicks a glance at Cicatrix, seeing unfamiliar starfields on their wings and shimmering ooze where eyes might have peered from. It is an appearance which could only come from a dream, far different than any other he had known. But it does not bother the shed-star, his own frame glowing softly with the turquoise light of stardust, casting a blue light against the halo of Cicatrix’ golden shadow.
“Where is it that you’ve come from? What is your homeland like?” He is curious to know more of Cicatrix, and of what stories they might share. In return, he shares the story of the People, his voice little more than a quiet whisper in the night. “Though I call Denocte home now, it wasn’t always. There was a time that the People lived deep in the Arma Mountains – into the wilds beyond Denocte’s borders. Our land was at the highest point in Novus, where the stars were close enough to touch – or so it seemed. It was a beautiful place, with temples of white marble and an observatory made entirely of silver glass.” A lump formed in his throat as he thought of the beauty of home, remembering the many hours he’d spent there as a child, learning and growing under the tutelage of the elders.
“It is beautiful here,” he assures the scholar, “but nothing will compare to the skies over my home. At night, they were painted with great streaks of stardust, a kaleidoscope of colors. When the sun faded, we would turn down all the lights, so only the starlight would shine upon us… and it was always bright enough to see.” He sighed, nostalgia clear as he reminisced on times past, before turning to his companion with a strain in his voice.
“But now, that place is gone… What I wouldn’t give to lay eyes on it once more.”
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