azrael
The stallion is helpless to do anything but stand and listen as her tongue lashes at him, as bright as the stars in the heavens. When she speaks, her eyes find his and hold – betraying both anger and hurt, as well as something other. Disbelief. Disdain.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen such a look, for there were all manner of Stars with the People. The pious. The dreamers. The scholars. The pure. Azrael was none of these, and all of these at once. He did not fit nicely into a mold, tending more toward warmth and mortality than his brethren, never quite finding his place among the true holiness of Caligo’s chosen. But still, Azrael finds his kindness as his strength as much as his weakness, and he cannot help but feel anything other than sorry for Warset as she watches him with a gaze that screams of lostness.
“You’re right,” he murmurs to the girl, a quiet sound in the otherwise jovial festival tone. “I do not wonder… for it is of no consequence what matter makes the stars. Without hope, without heart, the stars are empty as they shine upon us. The cosmos loses its wonder, the dreamer loses his wish.”
She sings, the sound a haunted thing which sends shivers down his spine, even as he watches with horror as the stars begin to fall. And when she gazes upon him once more, there is a darkness which he sees in her despite the light she wears – something beyond his capacity to save, even if she had been a creature who wished salvation. He watches her go, wiping away a silver tear that stings at his eye, unwilling to give in to the darkness which threatens his light, even as he stares to the smoldering ruin of her star. For hope could always be found in the darkness, if only it was sought. And so the shed-star breathes again, willing away the shadow of doubt as he turns to leave the festival, too lost in thought to join the revelry once more.
@Warset
