some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
He does not see how his magic is changing things around them. How she flinches as if burned. When he does see, when her retreating awakens him from the stupor Isolt has lulled him into, then he sees how his Death is pushed back, back, back.
The wildling watches her go. There is no smile of victory in him, his eyes are sombre and still, resting always on her like the sun ceaselessly bathing her skin. Upon his lips is a wish to call her back. The words are already forming themselves upon his tongue. But there too is knowing. Knowing that this is the way of things, of… them.
Isolt is his cat, laying her claws into the weakest parts of him. But his magic contains the wilieness of a fox, the bravery of a stag. It whispers along her magic and says no. The fae-youth feels it in the way his bones sing with her magic and his.
Even as he watches his magic repel her, he thinks too of how it also longs to work with her. To bring her magic racing faster, faster. His magic is not that of simply death, but life. All existence yields to time and time is his. He remembers a sister, as pallid as Isolt’s. If she were here, his sister of feral magics, he knows with effort and time they together could freeze Isolt’s magic as it works. They could freeze Isolt herself, if they chose. The boy sighs softly. It would be a tragedy though, to clip the wings of another so… This is the truth of Leonidas. He enjoys the danger of this girl and her sister. In the way he loves the wilder looks of a wolf as it years to make a feast of him. It is needed in the wild wood. It is needed to bring death as a counterbalance to life. He looks to her and Time whispers along his skin as it ripples through the water.
“No.” He says to her as she is pushed back by weeds, full of vitality. “You misunderstand me.” Now he moves to her, through the tangling growth that trips even him. Now he is the one pursuing her and he does not think this will be the last time. They are bound now, afterall. “I am all those things,” Leonidas says again, “I am in pain from loss and life and love. I want freedom from them all.” Stonewort and starfruit and water violets reach to stop his slow chase.
But the magic of her spell is lifted now. “I did not lie. But i do not want them now.” And then, with the tilt of his head, as he draws close to the girl, the smell of dank water clinging to her skin, he looks down, gold into black, “And you don’t want me dead. Not yet. It is not our time, Isolt.” He whispers with a voice of eternities, of universes chasing out, out, out. He reaches his muzzle for her cheek, presses his lips to her, His mouth is warm, alive, thriving. And then he flees her, as he is made to, as he always will, until, suddenly, he will not.
@Isolt
