Wings tuck to sides, skinny and long, as the comet girl settles into an earthly stance and finds him in a sea of trees at last. Her eyes are soft, inviting. They are invigorating and every so different from his own. She waits, curious, and he burns, an echoing of that curiosity flitting through him. This comet reeks of sadness, of that same forlorn feeling that something (someone, somewhere) is missing, missing, missing. Gone – like the time they cannot get back. Gone – like the tides washed back out to sea. Gone – like a past slowing being washed away with every day they are stuck in this land that is not their land, a place that is not their home, not where their heart belongs.
Alecto does not shy away.
Ears tilt forward through the mess of golden hair carefully pinned into a glorious mess beside his horns (they curl too, beautifully), as a single word escapes like an old friend from her lips. Old and new. Young and worn. An anomaly, a mystery, perhaps an almost-mirror of himself were he something strange and foreign and made both more and less sense than smoke and shadows and tricks of the light. At last, though, he steps nearer again. Movements are slow, a stream slipping over forest rocks, making its way sweetly down a mountainside to some great and unknown destination. Everything he does is smooth, and soft, and sweet like the comet that blinks at him again.
At last, oh at last! – the sunlit man, the moonlit man, the darkness and light of him war like the words that would escape. He settles on a simple ”Hello,” instead of something profound and beautiful. She could be something profound and beautiful, he decides. Or, this woman of the night, of the winged bright things left in the night, could be something entirely unamusing and dull. Like a dancer left on their toes, he waits, still as the sky, not even a wobble to give away if he is eager or if he is disinterested. Patience. Patience. It has always coursed through his veins like honey in water given to his sister, his mother, his memories as they die and fade and are crushed beneath the ashes that reality leaves him with.
”You are lovely,” he says laconically, voice both soothing and songlike, something meant for these hours of darkness, meant for nothing of the light to know. After all, in the end, won’t he just be another dream to another being, another mystery in their life that will not be solved for years and years and years, and even then he would remain an open thought, an unasked question.
Alecto does not shy away.
Ears tilt forward through the mess of golden hair carefully pinned into a glorious mess beside his horns (they curl too, beautifully), as a single word escapes like an old friend from her lips. Old and new. Young and worn. An anomaly, a mystery, perhaps an almost-mirror of himself were he something strange and foreign and made both more and less sense than smoke and shadows and tricks of the light. At last, though, he steps nearer again. Movements are slow, a stream slipping over forest rocks, making its way sweetly down a mountainside to some great and unknown destination. Everything he does is smooth, and soft, and sweet like the comet that blinks at him again.
At last, oh at last! – the sunlit man, the moonlit man, the darkness and light of him war like the words that would escape. He settles on a simple ”Hello,” instead of something profound and beautiful. She could be something profound and beautiful, he decides. Or, this woman of the night, of the winged bright things left in the night, could be something entirely unamusing and dull. Like a dancer left on their toes, he waits, still as the sky, not even a wobble to give away if he is eager or if he is disinterested. Patience. Patience. It has always coursed through his veins like honey in water given to his sister, his mother, his memories as they die and fade and are crushed beneath the ashes that reality leaves him with.
”You are lovely,” he says laconically, voice both soothing and songlike, something meant for these hours of darkness, meant for nothing of the light to know. After all, in the end, won’t he just be another dream to another being, another mystery in their life that will not be solved for years and years and years, and even then he would remain an open thought, an unasked question.
