At even the faintest whisper of a returned greeting she smiles, and he wonders how that innocence has not been lost to the world and its wicked ways. Such sweetness, saccharine and near-sickening, but not quite, sit prettily upon her dark face. In the night, she is a storm of starlight with that smile, drawing wayward and weary souls near so they might find respite for even the briefest of moments. But he is not tired, and he needs no rest, so he does not lay down his head and roll over, allowing time to pass him by again.
Alecto offers his own grin up to the world.
And it is soft.
And it is sad.
And it is a world of stories unspoken.
And no one ever really reads it true.
So he speaks again, and she ponders the meaning. Uninterrupted, the stallion lets her thoughts float into the cosmos and that more mundane, all the while guessing and spinning and reweaving his image of this woman. Gasps of galaxies still reach out from under her tucked wings, begging to be let loose. What sort of powers she must hold? What life she has lived to breathe life into that which was cold and distant. But she is neither cold nor distant with the gentility dripping from her very bones.
There might be a spine in there somewhere, but if there is, Veil Nebula does not show it.
The iron heart of a star, the core of a collapsing being, has yet to settle into the fibre of her bone and being. And he simply laughs, soft and dark, when she questions what he is. “What would you have me as?” He counters because he has never been night or day. No. Perhaps that is a lie.
As a boy, perhaps, he had been the sun. Brilliant and burning and ready to collapse. The light that entered the room, the apple of his dear mother’s eye. He’d shone brilliantly when he’d wished for nothing more than to make his family proud.
But those days are gone and he fell into shadow, becoming nothing but a memory of that glistening being. An echo of an echo, that which is left in the shadow to lurk and be lost to time.
Perhaps, Alecto does not know much of what he is anymore other than he simply is. “And you? Are you the night itself breathed to life?”
Alecto offers his own grin up to the world.
And it is soft.
And it is sad.
And it is a world of stories unspoken.
And no one ever really reads it true.
So he speaks again, and she ponders the meaning. Uninterrupted, the stallion lets her thoughts float into the cosmos and that more mundane, all the while guessing and spinning and reweaving his image of this woman. Gasps of galaxies still reach out from under her tucked wings, begging to be let loose. What sort of powers she must hold? What life she has lived to breathe life into that which was cold and distant. But she is neither cold nor distant with the gentility dripping from her very bones.
There might be a spine in there somewhere, but if there is, Veil Nebula does not show it.
The iron heart of a star, the core of a collapsing being, has yet to settle into the fibre of her bone and being. And he simply laughs, soft and dark, when she questions what he is. “What would you have me as?” He counters because he has never been night or day. No. Perhaps that is a lie.
As a boy, perhaps, he had been the sun. Brilliant and burning and ready to collapse. The light that entered the room, the apple of his dear mother’s eye. He’d shone brilliantly when he’d wished for nothing more than to make his family proud.
But those days are gone and he fell into shadow, becoming nothing but a memory of that glistening being. An echo of an echo, that which is left in the shadow to lurk and be lost to time.
Perhaps, Alecto does not know much of what he is anymore other than he simply is. “And you? Are you the night itself breathed to life?”
I love them QuQ
