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“Then, let us go, Saoirse –
He ignores the sound of his namesake, chafing against the air. Despite her sing song, or the smoothness of her tones that weave into the periphery. His namesake is foreign and alien to his ears when said aloud – hardly sung, the boy leaves its harsh, underlying defiance behind him with a nod. Setting his cool, emerald eyes ahead on the lights crested along the cliffs. Perhaps he will loose himself there, erased from history and casted along in a sea of gold and fire.
The youth moves, quickens his pace, unburdened by the wounds of his descent. Carrying himself forward with poise swallowed up in boyish wonder. An air of certainty guiding his footfalls against the elusive path of the rock and supple moisture, on mere delight and abandon alone. He squeezed his wings tight against his sides, for he could feel their desire to swell with the enchanting rise of the winds, and their mysterious rhythm that followed the voices ahead in chorus. At this time the heavy clouds had all but moved on, providing open sky and a wide berth set out by the horizon. It seemed to reach out and caress their skin, drawing them closer to the festivities ahead.
It set a flame in the pool of his eyes. For he tried in vain to restrain his desire to explore the grounds, and how it awoken something within him – unknown. He cast his gaze back towards Cyrene, as if she might anchor him from that unknown. Oblivious to the mare’s turn in countenance, or the weight of her words fallen from her tongue. Their gravity of composure too weak, - despite its truths – were sent spinning in opposite directions.
“The drinks must be cooling under our noses as we dawdle. Hurry along!”
A grunt escapes the youth. He’s reassured of her bubbling enthusiasm, held back by the enigmatic glow of her eyes. “I heard you the first time,” he chastises. Willing his limbs faster, as to challenge her in the last few legs. It’s not far enough to twist and wind about the step – for they arrive sooner than the boy expects. And immediately injects himself into the cacophony of the crowds. Slowing fast enough to avoid bumping into the civilians. These smells are none that he has ever smelt before – but they make his mouth water nonetheless. His body shivers under the presence of light and warmth.
The boy wanders without realizing he has begun to. Following the movements of practiced dancers, souls seducing one another – bodies shifting to their own rhythm. Finding his voice, he searches for the woodland fae and speaks. A thought has struck its path beyond the novelties unearthed before him. “Where do we start?”
He followed the sweet scent of pastries carried from one stranger to the other. Licking his lips momentarily. It seemed as if his senses were all at once put on high alert, and every tantalizing sound and smell drove him farther, and farther away from his small beginnings. Becoming energized by these subtle nuances.
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