some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
She asks him of things even wildling boys have no answers for. But he thinks that he would like to.
As she cradles the plucked flower and looks upon it with a warmth he cannot place, Leonidas thinks of all the wondrous questions she has asked. Her wanderings beckon a grin to slip free as a breeze across his lips. It is an untameable thing, that smile of his. It is the bated breath of a storm in the eternal few seconds before the first strike of lightning splits the sky.
The boy moves, less a horse than a slinking fox, possessing the unharnessed energy of a river rapids. He turns his golden eyes upon her and in them are every picture her words have woven. The fae youth tips his chin up into the sky, until the twigs hang and dance down the muscles of his neck. He looks for flowers amidst the clouds, grasses growing and trees reaching. He looks to where he has seen lightning branch like the reaching limbs of a tree. ”No”, the reckless forest-boy whispers, his voice a susurration of leaves filling the space between him and her. “i have not seen flowers planted in clouds - “ and there is a bleak morning’s lament to him as he tips his gaze from her, “- but i have danced within storms.” Ah! Then he grins and laughs elven and delightful.
Her curiosity is magic in the air. It is as sweet upon his tongue as the strawberries in Sussuro Fields. Leonidas peers down at her beneath his long, midnight lashes as he stands like an oak, full of strange magic, So still and yet ever moving. An energy blooms across his earthen, soil dusted skin, it ripples out like static. He would wonder if it played across her skin like fitful delight.
The wild-wood boy anticipates her smile and presses his muzzle against the soft petals of the flower she plucked and named theirs. Slowly he turns from her, less a boy than a god, a king of the woodlands deep. “Shall we find some strange magic?” The boy whispers and turns his head toward her, his crown of gilded tines and tangled green foliage, glinting atop his brow. “Will you come?” And his telekinesis reaches out for hers, a palm laid up, an invitation open.
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