alecto vermillio raptis
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W
orlds slip between past and present, times changing fluidly as water dripping down the eaves of the many walls of Denocte and into the streets of celebration and laughter. Days are meant for resting, for planning, for staying out of the eyes of Oriens as he came onto the horizon, avoiding Solis as he took over the day. Only Vespera and Caligo embrace the children of the night. Alecto let the day pass him by, fitfully thinking of his sister, his mother, that terrible Lord that ruled over them both. It was disgusting. And he, still, left as much a mystery as he is a disappointment. These are the hours he is left to think, to wonder, to feel the aching in his bones that both the prince and his sister left behind. It is a sore that neither scabs nor stops its weeping. An open wound untreated.
Toxic.
Deadly.
But Time, does not care for boys with feelings just as he does not truly care for the customs and full culture of Denocte. No matter its magic and power and color, it is not his home. It is not an isle of dragons and wyverns and magic. This place is a house of sticks and stones and crumbling walls.
It is a cage for a heart half-beating.
At some point, the man wakes from his fits and sighs. Washing himself from a basin, he is left alone as he sets out into the early evening light. In the sky, the light burns brightly, fiercely. There are no gentle clouds to soften its glow. No sign of autumn storms come. And yet...it is crisp as he inhales sharply. Any colder and he will surely see his own breath. Home...home...there were always fires burning and people laughing where he stayed. Bodies swayed and smiles were exchanged. Only in the realm of politics and playing god with lives were there snakes whose fangs would bite and eyes would still smile with the same cold light the stars on his skin reflects.
The chill seeps into the blue and the gold of him as he moves further and further from the city. Somewhere behind him, people start to rouse and set their lanterns. Somewhere ahead of him, there is a comet streaking through the sky.
It is a comet until it is not a comet.
He is cast upon a path that winds back and forth, the sawtooth tracks sloping dangerously downhill. One step and he would be gone. Alecto does not misstep. Golden feet carry him until, at last, the man of night and day finds the girl of the cosmos. Behind her is a cape of galaxies spread from wings of darkest night. Opposite. They are not the same. His head inclines, a subtle greeting, as he wonders what a star is doing so far from her skies.
I tasted shadow long before I ever knew the light
