The Regent knows he should stay away, he should run, as fast as his legs can carry him and as far as his wings care to keep him aloft in Calligo's eternal embrace. Yet, he cannot, something pulls at him, fickle fine threads with the strength of gods pull at him and he goes. There's a part of him screaming, but it's locked behind ivory bars, as thick as steel and twice as damning.
Below, beneath the steady beat of his painted wings there are still revelers in the middle of their celebrations. They danced on, unaware of the tumultuous heart which soared high above them, shrouded by the smoke of the bonfires. Some moved sinuously like the flames they twirl around, some as quick and sharp as the crackle of the wood to the fire. Others appeared content to merely sway, lost in their own thoughts and the sweet scents and sights which rolled out for miles around. He should spin down and down, and join his people. Join the Pegasai in their sky dances, their ornate and dare devilish twists and turns to shape and guide the smoke and embers. Land and dance on delicate, porcelain hooves and laugh a musical, lilted thing that's lighter than he felt. He should. But he doesn't. Something twists inside him, like a carefully aimed knife. It sliced between his ribs to the part of him which is star fire and a dragon's temper. Needled at the images of Reichenbach's face, the look he'd given him the moment they had met at the cliffs. The one he had flashed him as he'd left. Indignation once more bloomed in his chest, a spark ignited into the very fury of the stars. Their fire and their capriciousness rolled into one.He cannot abide such hot and cold treatment, even if duty called for it, even if he hadn't looked back to see if just for a moment Reichenbach had searched him out. Isorath deserved kindness, some selfish part of him mourned, the part which had endured one painful heartbreak and wanted no more of it. Just as much as it wanted to love again, he desired the right to know if there was more than these idle games. The flirting, the gesture wrapped so tenderly around his antler. His shattered heart roared against it's bindings and snapped free, his eyes glow with it in the night. Lilac stars threatening to burn and consume him like the pyre had seasons before, as that look of consternation flashed across his mind once more, like a whiplash upon his scaled back. He will know, he will throw himself upon a sword to know the answer to the agonizing question scalding his flesh and bones. Caught in a maelstrom of emotions, his wings carried him faster, more furiously toward his target. He had not spied Reichenbach in the fields, nor the Court. He must be at the Cliffs. But if he is at the Cliffs..would he be alone? It should of sent him sprawling to the earth, but he cannot back out now. He's burning from the inside out. He veered, sharply with all the elegance of a dragon, out into the ocean air with the waves beneath him now. Away from the safety of land to cushion him should he tumble. It doesn't take him long at the cliffs to spot who he is looking for. There, in one of the coves, sheltered from eyes which peered from the sheer edge, he spots the King of Shadows and Thieves. Alone. White lined eyes flare, both in surprise and relief, to see the King without the Golden Queen. What happened when he left with Lysander? Where is the Monarch dressed in the trappings of spring with the youthful heart? Now is his chance. Angling his lithe body, he drifted lower and lower, his heart thundering all the while and his fire raging. How he longed to make it tangible, to feel the pulse of magic in his chest. He would feel more comforted if he could beckon in forward, he knows this to be true. Here he is wildly alone, out of his depth, naked beneath a splintered visage of mirrors, gold and stars. It makes him volatile, makes his blood boil and swirl wildly in his veins, like wailing stars falling across an ashen amarathine sky. How much more amiable and controlled would he be if he could just feel that power again, see the wafts of dreamy smoke plume from his nostrils, sense the starscape reaching forward protectively to give him their embers. Give him their form, their love, their power. Painted wings soon fan, in long strokes to carry him within reaching distance of the sand. Porcelain hooves touched the white sand and sank deeply, followed by his front. Long hair falls around his face and his neck, down and down until it nearly caresses the floor with it's ethereal touch. The same goes for his tail, spanning across the white sand with it's moonstone rivers, iridescent in the light of Calligo's sky. He wanted to open his mouth and breathe fire, let Reichenbach know his wounded heart, his inflamed pride and his damnable emotions. Yet, instead he settled for something else as he toed toward the shoreline. The halo behind his head glows onward, it's enchanted candles still burning, the godly visages etched into the wax staring onward. Isorath should fly away again, like a star which had found it's wings back to the heavens. But he can't. He won't. Porcelain hooves stop as they touch the tide, it's salty touch reaching toward the silver tresses to entwine them in it's briny grasp. He does not look at Reichenbach, but oh how he wants to. He wants the King of Thieves, the King Crow, Calligo's champion to look into his eyes and see the anger there. See the fires of dragons. The conflict of a Prince who cradles the remnants of his heart with every fiber of his being. Each one is precious, not to be given away freely, yet the man beside them is taking them all, piece by aching piece. Whether he knows or not, whether he cares about such a significant thing or could hardly care less. Most of all, he wants Reichenbach to look in his eyes and see everything that he'd never dare give the air to breathe. "Shouldn't you be dancing?" He asked curtly, his lilted tone, one that he wore as well as his finery, withered in favor of an icy flatness. He should be filled with warmth, and yet the stars give him their aching void, the ice of planets lost. @Reichenbach |
