She smiles a soft, appreciative smile, swiveling her head to gaze out past the black water and the shadowed stands of mighty oak, to where the faintest of mountain’s spire might be seen, perhaps, if it were not so dark and distant.
She knows mountains, holds them in reverent closeness to her breast.
They are hearth and home; the granite and ice frontiers of all she has ever held dear in her life. Her eyelids flutter shut for a second, long enough to picture the Crux, cleaving the hinterlands of her girlhood in two; grasping in protective custodianship the kingdom of Iskvik and the Vale of Flor. She sees herself as a girl and Kyrr is with her, of course. They gather yarrow and cinquefoil in leather satchels and Kyrr tells her all about them as they meander into a blooming fade. Then, the stone spine of Edana’s northern range that had reached like a hundred ancient, craggy sentinels for miles, guarding the rest of the realm from that which festered in the Outlands. She wanders the quiet, lamplit streets of Isdel, the moony summits and starlight-splayed valleys peak from above the halo of sandstone walls…
Then, they are gone – ground down to dust and ash – and she tries to set aside the fathomless expanse of time and space that separates them from her, now. “Thank you,” there is sincerity in her voice, a naked acknowledgement of his knowing glance to her instruments. She lets out a soft sigh, turning pale face to the cloaked sky, “order, direction, home,” she returns her gaze to him. “Matris Aurem, Patris Decursus, Flumen...”
There is a quiet moment. A realignment. A gathering of composure, her eyes shift downward, her smile turning apologetic. “Sorry, I lose myself. I see home. Though, these skies are new to me. The constellations shift; some of them I cannot see at all, anymore.” Gone, lost to hemispheres to which she shall never return.
“Azrael,” she repeats, nodding, taking in the reprieve of still darkness. ‘What brings you to Denocte?’ she cannot hide the small, thankful raise of brow, as she knows, at long last, what to call where she is. Or, at least, part of it. Her head tilts curiously at the mention of a festival – this conjures not entirely unpleasant slips of memory, of Morthalion and Isdel’s theatres, open-air markets, trysts on streets. “Well, I must be honest, I did not know I was in Denocte until just now, nor of any festival,” she lets out a soft peel of laughter, “feels less strange, already.” A relief; a flood of questions she contains in the demure, tranquil turn of cheek and brush of lash against cheekbone.
“Where you born here in this land, in Denocte?” she shifts her weight, trying to imagine him being born of earthly things, of flesh rather than of star-stuff.
It seems absurd.
She knows mountains, holds them in reverent closeness to her breast.
They are hearth and home; the granite and ice frontiers of all she has ever held dear in her life. Her eyelids flutter shut for a second, long enough to picture the Crux, cleaving the hinterlands of her girlhood in two; grasping in protective custodianship the kingdom of Iskvik and the Vale of Flor. She sees herself as a girl and Kyrr is with her, of course. They gather yarrow and cinquefoil in leather satchels and Kyrr tells her all about them as they meander into a blooming fade. Then, the stone spine of Edana’s northern range that had reached like a hundred ancient, craggy sentinels for miles, guarding the rest of the realm from that which festered in the Outlands. She wanders the quiet, lamplit streets of Isdel, the moony summits and starlight-splayed valleys peak from above the halo of sandstone walls…
Then, they are gone – ground down to dust and ash – and she tries to set aside the fathomless expanse of time and space that separates them from her, now. “Thank you,” there is sincerity in her voice, a naked acknowledgement of his knowing glance to her instruments. She lets out a soft sigh, turning pale face to the cloaked sky, “order, direction, home,” she returns her gaze to him. “Matris Aurem, Patris Decursus, Flumen...”
There is a quiet moment. A realignment. A gathering of composure, her eyes shift downward, her smile turning apologetic. “Sorry, I lose myself. I see home. Though, these skies are new to me. The constellations shift; some of them I cannot see at all, anymore.” Gone, lost to hemispheres to which she shall never return.
“Azrael,” she repeats, nodding, taking in the reprieve of still darkness. ‘What brings you to Denocte?’ she cannot hide the small, thankful raise of brow, as she knows, at long last, what to call where she is. Or, at least, part of it. Her head tilts curiously at the mention of a festival – this conjures not entirely unpleasant slips of memory, of Morthalion and Isdel’s theatres, open-air markets, trysts on streets. “Well, I must be honest, I did not know I was in Denocte until just now, nor of any festival,” she lets out a soft peel of laughter, “feels less strange, already.” A relief; a flood of questions she contains in the demure, tranquil turn of cheek and brush of lash against cheekbone.
“Where you born here in this land, in Denocte?” she shifts her weight, trying to imagine him being born of earthly things, of flesh rather than of star-stuff.
It seems absurd.
Hover for transaltions!
@Azrael
@Azrael
☽
