The summer sun rose high over Novus as Pan returned to a land that seemed familiar, and yet not. They would remember him though – the unique boy with a sprightly step, mischief in his eyes, and sunlight glinting from his green and silver scales. While he moved, he seemed to dance between distractions, digging in the sand, watching a colorful bird, and then humming a rather out-of-tune pirate song. His entrance was certainly not a quiet one, but then, Pan seldom worried about who he might be bothering. Instead, the boy simply minded his own business, picking his way across the border of the Dusk Court on some great adventure.
A well worn satchel is slung over the boy’s shoulders, jingling with every step as the tattered pieces of shell, sea glass, and rusted pieces of wire rubbed against each other. He carried his treasures as if they were the most precious items in the world, always seeking another cave or hidden place to store them. Also in his bag were a few of his trusted books – the one about a knight fighting a windmill, and a scroll from what seemed a lifetime ago, talking of a god he’d long forgotten in a place that was little more than a faraway mystery. He remembered the words, and how to read… but he could not remember who had taught him, or why, or what it all meant.
Instead of worrying, the boy simply found himself turning the pages, staring at the photos of the dashing knight and dreaming of the adventures he himself would take someday. What he had was never enough – he always wanted more… more exploration, more excitement, more friends. Hello? the boy cried to the summer wind. Is anybody here? And he hoped they were, for the child had been alone for longer than he could remember… and loneliness was settling over him like a well-loved cloak. He longed for the touch of another, for someone to laugh with and share in his adventures.
With a sigh, the scaled boy found a thick patch of grass, settling among it and rolling with his stomach facing the sun… and this is how he would be found, dozing away in the afternoon sun, with fragmented dreams filling his head – of a girl, with flowers in her hair, of a magical dagger, of pirates and mermaids and crystal blue water. But these were all just fairy tales…
There was somebody there, but she was hardly in a position to speak to the boy with fish-scales on his belly and adventure in his eyes.
Cirrus was among the other gulls along the cliffs, riding the summer breezes and letting the salt-scented wind blow through her feathers. She was hunting, a bit, but she was also watching the way she often did, her eyes bright and unnaturally keen against the dark of her face.
She heard the boy cry out, and swooped nearer to watch him. On white wings she circled, curious as he flipped through his book, as he finally bed down to nap. Oh, he was careless! As soon as he was asleep she was gone with a few flaps of her wings, already calling down the bond between her and a bay stallion with dusky stars on his skin.
Asterion (who was near the sea as often as he could be, now they were back in Terrastella) came at once, but not only because Cirrus told him of a lonely boy along the cliffs. It was her description of him that had him loping through the summer grasses, the wind in his hair. There were memories stirring in him, ones as old as ashes of a dead fire, and the more he wondered the quicker his heart beat, a hopeful bird against his ribs.
Ravos was so long ago, and his time there spent only as a wanderer - but he remembered meeting a boy, beside the sea, dusted with scales and alight with adventure.
The king slows to a walk when at last the boy comes into sight, a pale lump among the wildflowers nodding their heads. Cirrus perches on a rock not far away, but for a moment the bay only stands, watching the colt breathe, and there is something like slow sorrow in his dark eyes.
They had been of an age, the last time he’d seen him - and it is growing more difficult to remember the boy he had been, the one who dreamed of being a knight, the one who wanted to save the world. Now the years have slipped by him, touching him with their cold hands, changing him -
but not the lost boy. He looks the same.
At last Asterion steps near, and he smiles in spite of himself, at the sight of the boy dozing heedless in the grass. He wishes (as he often does) that Florentine were with him. At the thought the gull looks up at him, and there is something a little sad in her eyes, too.
“Pan?” the bay king asks softly, and waits for him to wake.
In dreams, the boy is free. He can run across the sea cliffs, dive from their height right into the crystal blue water. Hell, in dreams, he can do more than just jump… he can FLY!
The wind hugged him like a friend, pushing him up and down on air currents just as the waves would rock him in the sea. He laughed and giggled, his feet dancing in his sleep, pawing the air while a smile spread across his sleeping face. Little would the boy know that he’d been found by the King and his bird. Had he known though, Pan wouldn’t have minded the company one bit. Snorting as he slept, he rolled to his side, oblivious to those who stood and watched him.
He was falling now, but it felt like freedom anyway. Far from the sky he plummeted, into the waiting arms of his dearest ocean. The water was warm around him, almost like the waters of Neverland had been. The cries of seagulls pierced through the dream, the scent of the salted water stinging at his nostrils. Home. It was a feeling that wrapped him like a blanket. For where he found the sea, he found his heart… and the boy was as much at home in this strange and wonderful world as the one he’d come from before it, and the one before that. A true wandering heart, his home had become wherever he laid his head, and Pan was at peace.
Pan? The quiet question called him from his dream-trance, and the scaled boy blinked his eyes against the sunlight, bringing the stallion into focus. He paused for a moment, confusion settling over his expressive face. He knew this one… but he couldn’t pinpoint from where. Carefully, the boy rose to his feet, shaking the sand from his scales as he looked at the bay with twilight in his hair. For a rare moment, the boy is quietly thinking, before he states simply. I’m Pan… As if it wasn’t obvious.
Curiously, he looked around the side of the stallion to see a black-headed gull watching him shrewdly. Clearly, this bird wasn’t like the others, who rooted in the sand for whatever the sea washed up to them. Instead, it seemed focused on Asterion, and even focused on him. For a moment, the boy’s thoughts tipped toward another of his dreams – one that occurred so often these days – of a sleek brown otter running beside him.
Is this your bird? he asks suddenly, giving Asterion a toothy grin as he stepped a little closer to Cirrus, reaching in his bag and pulling out a hermit crab shell, offering it to the bird. I’ve seen you before… That much, Pan knew to be true… but he couldn’t remember much more...
For a few moments he is sorry to have woken the boy.
There is such peace in his dreaming, such fervent joy; it is easy to wonder what adventures he is on, as his hooves paw the grass and his nostrils quiver and his heart beats like a bird’s in his throat. Oh, since when has two looked so terribly young? Asterion finds himself wanting to protect the colt, when the last time they had seen one another they had been nearly of an age.
Not for the first time he is a little jealous of his sister’s dagger and her magic - that she might not be swept away by time, that she might linger a little longer in folly and in youth. It is a terrible thing, he thinks, to grow up.
When the boy stirs Asterion shakes such thoughts away, and backs a step to give Pan room to stand. His heart twangs like a string at the confusion in the colt’s eyes - it is too similar to the look Flora had given him, not so long ago - but it would be a lie to say he hadn’t expected it. Ravos was a long time ago, and Pan was clearly magic-touched - who knew what years had been lost to him, in the tides of time?
Still he smiles, dark ears forward as the boy names himself, and as his attention turns to Cirrus.
“She is,” he says, and winks at Cirrus when she shoots him a look. “Or rather, we are each other’s. This is Cirrus, my companion.”
The gull turns her gaze back to the pale, scaled boy, eyes bright with interest as he pulls the shell from his bag. With customary quickness she plucks the shell from him, then flies to Asterion’s back, where she sets it on his rump to investigate. The bay king flicks his tail at her, good-naturedly, and in return she gives a sharp tug to one of the silver strands running through it.
But their teasing is set aside at Pan’s next comment. Asterion turns his dark-eyed gaze back to the boy, and thinks of a world before this world, where the gods walked beside them and magic gathered, feral and hungry, in wild lands. “Yes,” he says softly. “But Ravos was a long time ago. I am Asterion - do you remember how you got to Novus, Pan?”
Pan is pleased with the bird, and he watches her carefully as she swoops from her perch to the stallion, his smile soft and a bit whimsical as he observes their bond. In another world, the boy would have his trusted otter by his side, or perhaps wrapped around his neck like a furry brown drape. Those days were gone though, and in their place is nothing but hollow dreams and a bag of sea litter. Still, the boy is happy. He always finds happiness – for Pan did not know to be sad for the life he’d lost. Instead, he was simply experiencing each day as if it were his first.
Ravos… the name is prickly in his mind – for surely it is a name he should remember. It is a memory which should evoke boyish dreams, knightly stories, adventures and antics – but as the foreign land’s name reaches him now, there is only a tingle of warmth. Novus… Again, the boy is at a loss for words. Novus must be this place, he decided. And what could he say of it so far?
Should he tell the star king that he’d found a cave, so obviously abandoned by an earlier version of himself, filled to the brim with his treasures – once lost and now found once more? Would he think the boy mad, if Pan told him of his dreams – of the girl with the laugh like a summer song, with flowers in her hair, with a dagger in her palm – of the witch in the swamp – of the crisp autumn punch against his lips? I… I don’t know… it was clear the boy was struggling within his own mind, lost to the time and the magic. I suppose I came from… Ravos, did you say? But then, there were entire chapters in between that he was missing. And of course, there was Neverland.
His face was wide with shock as he stared at the Dusk King, lost and afraid. I don’t know… the boy repeated, sighing as he paced back and forth, wondering all the while what brought him here. Perhaps Asterion would know better than he.
Oh, melancholy stirs in him like gray and quiet waters as Pan repeats the names that Asterion has given him. It is too much like seeing only a dim flicker of recognition in his sister’s eyes as she woke from her disastrous encounter with Ruth, and the stallion wonders how many others might have their memories stolen away. Might he, someday, not remember the names of all those he has come to love?
Never, Cirrus whispers down their mental bond, and the stallion flicks a grateful ear toward her. He knows they can make no true promises between them, but it is enough, for now, to pretend.
But Pan has no such comfort. And so the bay king, though not often the first to offer touch, closes the distance between them and presses his muzzle against Pan’s shoulder. For a moment he closes his eyes and only breathes, inhaling the scent of warm summer sun, of sweetgrass and wheat, and always, always of the sea. “It’s alright,” he says, drawing away again, and his gaze is dark as it follows the colt who paces a path in the swaying grasses. “You’re here now - the how of it doesn’t matter so much.”
He knows nothing of how the boy had been to Novus before - but he remembers tales of Florentine’s, one of the many times he had asked for stories of the Rift. Though rarely good at hiding his worries, Asterion smiles now, willing away the fear and confusion in the colt’s eyes. “We should let Flora know you’re here,” he says, and hopes the name clears something in Pan’s gaze. “She’ll be so glad to see you again. She’s told me lots of stories of your adventures.”
Almost he adds you’re safe here, Pan, but in the end he can’t; he will not make promises whose keeping are out of his hands.
The boy melts into Asterion’s touch, drawing a calming breath as the older stallion offers comfort. He breathes deeply, taking in the scent of the second male, an earthy sort of tone. The world around them is still and quiet, except for the occasional breeze that swept through the hills. I like it here He begins walking with Asterion, nodding blindly toward the suggestion that they should find Flora, no more certain of who or what Flora was than his own story. Is this your home?
Bits of grass still clung to his mane and tail, flying free as he flicks his head back and forth to displace them. There’s much to this land – no pirates yet, but I found a fire breathing dragon horse, and dancing girls who dripped with gold. Showing off his prizes, he dug deep into his satchel to pull out a small wind-up music box. It was a gift which he’d obtained from the night markets, and as he wound it, a tinny sort of gypsy song wafted through the air between them. His head bobbed to the music as he smiled, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments to enjoy and remember the nights where he’d found the freedom of the party – the best sort of distraction.
He danced to keep up with Asterions’s long stride as they searched for the girl Flora and her stories. What kind of stories? He asked absentmindedly, always up for a story or two. In his day, Pan had been quite a storyteller himself, but now he could not remember enough to weave together such a tale of his past. Still, he had stories from his time since arriving here to Novus. Did you know, at the River there’s a sea witch who can stitch magic into your skin? Turning to his right, he showed off the sheen of his now-magic-again compass marking which shone a turquoise blue in the sunlight. Little did the boy know that it allowed him to breathe underwater now… he just liked the look of its newly acquired scale-sheen. Did you see her?
If Asterion had hoped further mention of his sister would spark some recognition in the boy, no sign of it shows as they begin to walk. His expression remains tranquil, though he cannot banish the worry from his dark eyes.
But why should he worry? From what Florentine has said, Pan is the boy who will not grow up; he’s survived all of his adventures yet, and sails by his own stars, and does not need a half-acquaintance fretting over him like a mother hen. No offense, he thinks to Cirrus, who flicks a wing at him. Oh, but it is something else to ponder in the deep waters of his heart - when had he gone from adventurer to worrier? Not so long ago he might have been a companion of Pan’s, chasing every sunset. Now -
“It is,” he smiles more wryly at the irony of it. “In many ways.” He is glad not to continue, glad to be interrupted by the colt’s excitement. The bay leans in to observe Pan’s treasures, though his brows raise at the mention of a fire-breathing dragon horse. “I don’t know about pirates, but I know there are smugglers in the coves off Denocte,” he says, and immediately feels a tinge of guilt as Cirrus shoots him an accusatory look. No need to encourage the boy to hunt down the darker shadows of the Night Court. “Oh,” he says quickly (before the boy could process), and the wonder in his voice is genuine as he looks at the music box. Distant as the music is, it carries him back to the night markets, too. Asterion thinks of Moira, and Isra, and all those he’d met in Denocte - it fills him with a sweet kind of homesickness.
Yet he is glad to be walking through the fields of his own court, the long grasses tickling his belly. “All sorts,” he answers, grinning, “about a thimble you gave her, and a boy named Egg, and a dozen more besides.” It is easy to see why Flora and Pan were such good friends - both of them hungry for adventure, both of them flowing through a conversation like a leaping stream, thought to thought and question to question.
It puts his mind at ease, and his smile broadens as he watches Cirrus wing ahead, the sun bright on her snow-white wings. “I did not,” he says with a laugh, and pauses to admire the boy’s marking. He shakes his head at the following question, starting forward again. The walls of the keep were visible now, sheer and gray as the cliffs from which their stones were cut. “I think you might already know more about Novus that I do,” he says. “What will you do next?”
@Pan over here making asterion feel old xD wanna wrap this one soon? I'm so glad he's back <3
Smugglers. Pirates. Same thing. The thought of them brought a warm sense of glee to Pan, and he made a mental note to find out more. It was clear from his words that Asterion didn’t want to share the details about such things… but he’d find a way to learn about the smugglers. Maybe Flora would tell him – after all, they had apparently been quite close once. He puzzles over the stories she shared… a thimble, Egg? None of it rang a bell, but he had to wonder if these things had come to him before in a dream. His memories were closer than ever now, and already he’d begun to remember a few things. In time, the rest would come.
He smiled, preening as a bird might when Asterion compliments him on his explorations. There was no higher praise for the adventurer than being recognized for his quest for knowledge. The first time he’d come to Novus, there had been no path which neatly fit Pan’s personality… but now, he was a gatherer. Nothing could be more suitable for the boy with more treasures than he could count, and a thirst to collect more. He ponders Asterion’s question for a moment, before deciding that he could trust the male with his intentions in Novus.
Saying nothing, Pan drew a thick tome from his satchel, spreading it gingerly onto the grass and flipping through the pages. Inside was a combination of crude notes and drawings. The book didn’t seem categorized well, but upon closer inspection, it became clear that it was filled with information on plants. I’m going to find them all. The boy whispered reverently, dipping back into his satchel to show Asterion several sprigs of flowers, tied with ropy filament.
Though Pan couldn’t know where the book had come from, he’d found it in his cave and poured over the words by candlelight late into the night. It had taught him some about the courts here, and mentioned many of the names which others had shared with him… names of the lands, of the gods. While it wasn’t necessarily the answers he wanted from his past, it was a pastime which could keep the scaled boy occupied as he learned about this place.
Do you have anywhere near here I should look? These plants are helpful, you see… I can use them to help people.
He is a little relieved when Pan does not press him on the smugglers, but there was a glint in the boy’s eye that Asterion recognized - one he himself had often worn - and the bay flicks an ear back at Cirrus. Keep an eye on him, he thinks, and hopes that if Pan finds his way to the smuggler’s caves he will think nothing of one more gull among a hundred of them.
When the colt pulls the weathered book from his satchel the king leans forward with his own boyish eagerness. His reverence for books had only grown since learning to read, though he did not spend much time among them; now his head is next to Pan’s, forelock tumbling careless across his eyes as he scans the pages. He only straightens again when the colt speaks, and the smile he wears is full and bright.
“A worthy goal,” he says, and nudges Pan the way a man might clap a hand on a boy’s shoulder. “Once you do, could you come back here and teach Dusk’s healers about what you’ve found? They would be glad to expand their own knowledge.”
At Pan’s question the line of his mouth turns considering, and the king studies the rough sketches of plants. He had never spend time pursuing herbs, but he has gleaned a wide range of knowledge in his years in Novus, and after a moment he taps an image of a pale bloom with leaves gathered in threes, lines running down them like veins of silver. “This one,” he says, “grows this time of year in Tinea Swamp. A friend showed it to me once.” The thought of Rhea makes his heart pang; he’d never gotten the opportunity to know her better, to ask what the runes carved into her curling horns meant. Asterion wonders if she is still living in the swamp, or if she is only another face he will never see again.
Maybe that is the trouble with staying in one place - it taught you to expect to see your friends again. It was easier to be a drifter, a dreamer, a dandelion seed on the wind.
But this is a reunion, of sorts, and Asterion shakes himself dog-like as he straightens, and casts Pan a grin. “If you go that way,” he says, and motions toward Tinea, “you’ll soon run into the swamp. Watch your step - the water is deeper than it looks, in places. Good luck, Pan, and I will see you again soon. You are always welcome in Terrastella.”
The king has to turn away (back toward the keep, back toward home) before his heart gets ahead of his mind and he asks Pan to stay.
