Alecto Vermillio Raptis
✧
T
here is a world, yes there is a world, that Alecto thinks of that is full of beautiful creatures who wear their horns as crowns and their bodies as tapestries to be decorated with a story that should (that would) be purified and raised and honored as something new, something sacred, something beautiful if they are so lucky to be chosen. In this world, his world, Alecto knows and dreams of a time when he would stand and watch as the parades came through as a boy. His father had been so proud to have him, to know him, to present his son to the world. Alecto is no longer the son of that monster, disowned, uncaring, a stranger in his own home. All of the old men there are monsters. Too busy stuck in the past, in their days of glory and attempting to relive their youth, rather than willing to look towards a future. And no father, least of all his, especially not his, would ever want a crook for a son. Or what is assumed to be a crook. But Alecto is no crook.
He is a dreamer, he is a mover, he is a shaker. He is a galaxy on a collision path heading straight for the future and he will not stop nor slow down. He does not know how.
So when the bodies press near and move as he moves, it is only natural that he should move with them and walk as they walk. A chameleon given freedom to pass where it may, he is invisible in the crowds as anyone but one from Denocte. Even with his glittering accent that is a bit rugged and his voice that is a bit rough and entirely too smooth and charming to belong to any one many alone, it is easy to push him into a court of darkness and mystery and dreams. It is easy to pin him among their masses and say that this is where he belongs.
So he does not argue.
Alecto merely dances where they dance and enamours young maids that stray too close. They are lovesick before the night is through on their journey and he is gone before they ever learn of the little snake that is in their midst.
An enigma. A mystery. These are the things that Alecto is.
He is not a commitment.
He is not permanent.
Nothing, to him, is ever permanent.
Perhaps, he thinks with a sardonic grin, that thought should change, for the concussion he surely has would likely have rather permanent effects on his well being from the man that just about ran him over and took his life. Pale lips are moving by the time golden eyes look up to meet them and they are stammering as a newborn babe.
An apology! Alecto’s grin grows only mildly, entirely contributing to the fact that he might come off as bonkers or completely off his rocker, but if it’s due to previous trauma or the current trauma is entirely unknown. “I’m quite certain I should report you and your...friend...to some authority for bodily harm against a guest.” Soft, so soft are his words of spider-silk and dreams. His mouth sets into a serious line as he looks them both over with a huff, a nod. “Yes, that would be the reasonable thing to do, but I think you’re too lovely to throw in a cell and let rot, so you’ll have to keep me company instead.” And there is no room for an argument when he chuckles low and dark, a challenge, an invitation, a living flame growing before poor Pravda’s very eyes.
Alecto lives for this attention, this focus, this waking dream.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you
