you wanted to live forever, but didn't you realize? you had to die to be truly immortalized
The stranger reveals, without stating them outright, two facts:
The first being he has been in Novus long enough to not meet many strangers.
The second being that, for whatever reason, he would prefer to remain anonymous to me.
I do not mind either of them. They seem of little significance and so, too, does this bay stranger. I do not recognize him; and perhaps the two of us are representative of changing prominence. And, besides, he does not regard me long. I turn my attention to him, and I watch him watch Damascus. There is something in his expression that reminds me of Antiope’s interrogation of me; that reminds me of a Sovereigns apprehension of massive beasts and strangers.
“Yes,” I answer, with just as little softness. I say nothing else as Damascus makes short work of the distance between us. When he reaches the cliffside, it is with a bellowing groan. I have thought, since first being Bonded to him, the sounds he makes unforgivable for a creature of such profound strength.
He sings like a whale—a melody which, sung together, sounds majestic and beautiful. When bellowed alone, however, that same enchanting tune becomes unforgivably melancholy. A sound reaching out into absence; a sound waiting for a return.
Damascus lands upon the cliffside; he perches there, like some tremendous bird that shakes the earth, claws sunk deep into the rock. It puts his own eye level with us and I stare, for a moment, at our reflections in the kaleidoscope pattern of his irises.
“Are you very fond of dragons, stallion dressed in stars?” Damascus asks. When he speaks, billows of vapor fall from his mouth. Violets and indigos, harmless, dissipate through the grasses.
The first being he has been in Novus long enough to not meet many strangers.
The second being that, for whatever reason, he would prefer to remain anonymous to me.
I do not mind either of them. They seem of little significance and so, too, does this bay stranger. I do not recognize him; and perhaps the two of us are representative of changing prominence. And, besides, he does not regard me long. I turn my attention to him, and I watch him watch Damascus. There is something in his expression that reminds me of Antiope’s interrogation of me; that reminds me of a Sovereigns apprehension of massive beasts and strangers.
“Yes,” I answer, with just as little softness. I say nothing else as Damascus makes short work of the distance between us. When he reaches the cliffside, it is with a bellowing groan. I have thought, since first being Bonded to him, the sounds he makes unforgivable for a creature of such profound strength.
He sings like a whale—a melody which, sung together, sounds majestic and beautiful. When bellowed alone, however, that same enchanting tune becomes unforgivably melancholy. A sound reaching out into absence; a sound waiting for a return.
Damascus lands upon the cliffside; he perches there, like some tremendous bird that shakes the earth, claws sunk deep into the rock. It puts his own eye level with us and I stare, for a moment, at our reflections in the kaleidoscope pattern of his irises.
“Are you very fond of dragons, stallion dressed in stars?” Damascus asks. When he speaks, billows of vapor fall from his mouth. Violets and indigos, harmless, dissipate through the grasses.
