LYSANDER
He says nothing to her apology, but his skin shivers as though below the whisper-touch of a fly. She owes him nothing, least of all the word sorry.
But he does her the grace of turning his eyes away, when she talks of broken hearts and of her fear, and he can feel a growing, foreign heaviness in his own heart. It is a strange feeling, and one he hasn’t felt in a very long time.
Sometimes it seems such a terrible thing, growing up. Lysander has been born and re-born, but never in the way of an adolescent stumbling messily toward adulthood. He has always felt a little messy himself about the process – sympathetic, regretful at the loss of a kind of innocent enthusiasm…and envious. A jealousy thin as brambles that twisted and withered and grew again in the shadowed places of his heart.
There were things even gods could never have – and those were the things they would always want.
His gaze tracks to her, head dipping at the sound of his name from her grown woman’s lips. “No,” he says, and maybe there is something strange in his voice – a kind of longing. Or maybe it is nothing; the snow is falling fast and thick, now, and his throat is tight with cold. “I have never had a broken heart. I’m not sure I am able.”
He is not at all surprised, as his green eyes linger on the amethyst of hers, that she has learned of such things. The questions rise in him, soft and sharp, but he closes his teeth around them for now. Instead, he smiles, too, when she echoes their long-ago-recent conversation. Where her smile is a brilliant thing, his only becomes more Cheshire-like as she once again closes the distance between them, swathing him in spring and golden sunshine, and his smile does not fade with hers.
He is not at all surprised by that, either.
“People have come to me because of broken hearts,” he says lightly as a dismissing wave of his hand, “but I would not say I have caused any. That requires an…ah, a permanence? I was not made for staying, and that is what I meant in the desert.” He says nothing of whether he still means it now – but surely she can see. Surely she feels some of it, herself.
At her confession he only laughs. It pours silver into the air between them and as it fades he reaches forward, nudging her muzzle with his own, and lips at her tangle of forelock. “You would catch a king, Flora. I hope he’s less grim than your father.” Surely he must be – and Lysander wonders then what else this king might be.
“Hmm,” he says as she soothes his pretend-wounded ego, his lips shaping a grin once again. “And does your king have antlers?” If he did, he must keep them very neat.
He tsks at her scar, and wonders of her brother – but he knows there will be time for that story, later on. When she suggests she’s a poor match for queen, he shakes his head, snowflakes bright in his dark curls. His voice, when he responds, is as soft as her own, though too low to be a whisper. “Perhaps you weren’t made for staying, either, not-so-little Anthousai.” They are alike; this he knows – but ah, she has gone places, now, that he never can.
Love – that is a changing thing, different than all the worlds he could ever walk, all the shapes he could ever wear, all the things he could coax to grow from dark soil.
When she looks away, wistful, he brushes his shoulder again her own, and starts in the direction of her gaze, casting her another glance.
“But I think we were both made for dancing. I would be delighted to attend.”
@Florentine
But he does her the grace of turning his eyes away, when she talks of broken hearts and of her fear, and he can feel a growing, foreign heaviness in his own heart. It is a strange feeling, and one he hasn’t felt in a very long time.
Sometimes it seems such a terrible thing, growing up. Lysander has been born and re-born, but never in the way of an adolescent stumbling messily toward adulthood. He has always felt a little messy himself about the process – sympathetic, regretful at the loss of a kind of innocent enthusiasm…and envious. A jealousy thin as brambles that twisted and withered and grew again in the shadowed places of his heart.
There were things even gods could never have – and those were the things they would always want.
His gaze tracks to her, head dipping at the sound of his name from her grown woman’s lips. “No,” he says, and maybe there is something strange in his voice – a kind of longing. Or maybe it is nothing; the snow is falling fast and thick, now, and his throat is tight with cold. “I have never had a broken heart. I’m not sure I am able.”
He is not at all surprised, as his green eyes linger on the amethyst of hers, that she has learned of such things. The questions rise in him, soft and sharp, but he closes his teeth around them for now. Instead, he smiles, too, when she echoes their long-ago-recent conversation. Where her smile is a brilliant thing, his only becomes more Cheshire-like as she once again closes the distance between them, swathing him in spring and golden sunshine, and his smile does not fade with hers.
He is not at all surprised by that, either.
“People have come to me because of broken hearts,” he says lightly as a dismissing wave of his hand, “but I would not say I have caused any. That requires an…ah, a permanence? I was not made for staying, and that is what I meant in the desert.” He says nothing of whether he still means it now – but surely she can see. Surely she feels some of it, herself.
At her confession he only laughs. It pours silver into the air between them and as it fades he reaches forward, nudging her muzzle with his own, and lips at her tangle of forelock. “You would catch a king, Flora. I hope he’s less grim than your father.” Surely he must be – and Lysander wonders then what else this king might be.
“Hmm,” he says as she soothes his pretend-wounded ego, his lips shaping a grin once again. “And does your king have antlers?” If he did, he must keep them very neat.
He tsks at her scar, and wonders of her brother – but he knows there will be time for that story, later on. When she suggests she’s a poor match for queen, he shakes his head, snowflakes bright in his dark curls. His voice, when he responds, is as soft as her own, though too low to be a whisper. “Perhaps you weren’t made for staying, either, not-so-little Anthousai.” They are alike; this he knows – but ah, she has gone places, now, that he never can.
Love – that is a changing thing, different than all the worlds he could ever walk, all the shapes he could ever wear, all the things he could coax to grow from dark soil.
When she looks away, wistful, he brushes his shoulder again her own, and starts in the direction of her gaze, casting her another glance.
“But I think we were both made for dancing. I would be delighted to attend.”
@
Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
Oh, but it calms me down
