ira
Ira comes to the sea rarely; there are so few beasts to hunt along the shores and he rarely ventures into the depths. Ira has never had the disposition of a fisherman, or an affinity toward the sea. Nevertheless, the lulling waves of Terminus soothe him; he looks out wistfully toward the horizon, remembering what it had felt like to live at sea.
Ira does not romanticize the venture; he remembers most clearly the constant fear, and the way his father kept him hidden beneath robes and hoods. “Do not show your face,” he had warned. ”Even here, at sea, you are not safe.”
(He still wakes up, sometimes, drenched in sweat and feeling that sensation of flight, of running for his life. The way the days had bled into one another, endlessly, until at last they docked in Denocte’s safe harbor. His father said, ”Now you must choose a new name,” and he had replied, “Ira.” Not because it was beautiful, or clever, but because at the time he had felt ire and nothing else.
Ira feels much differently gazing out at sea, now. He watches from far-off as an equine silhouette tilts their wings towards shore and glides in just above the tossing waves. Ira begins to trot, to keep pace, and when they land he calls out a greeting.
“Cicatrix, isn’t it?” Ira asks, aloud. “I don’t think we have ever had the opportunity to meet.”
@Cicatrix / speaks / notes
