your heart is a wild thing
made of stardust and thunder and hurricanes
The night was still a child, young and blissful and full of wonder. A never-ending sea of shimmering stars the color of opalescent pearls; not a single cloud covering the night sky. The summer night was cool and warm, like the small building heat from a little candle. Fireflies glimmered and ebbed and glowed as the seal bay fae stepped gingerly through the tall sweetgrass rubbing against her belly, ever wandering and without destination. She could still hear the soft beat of drums and music from the market square despite the distance — the sounds drifting along a whispering breeze like a half-remembered dream. Her muscles were tingling from her hours of twirling with the fire dancers, her skin buzzing and her mind wondrously forgetful and drunk on summer wine.
As she moved, slightly forgetting herself and stumbling on nimble hooves, she hummed, a playful smile tugging at her lips for the first time since before.. well, before him. Before her heart had swelled and shattered into millions of shards of glass. Her thoughts were muddled and as misty as mornings in the mountains as she travelled, eagerly trying to forget in all sense of the word. The winged fae swallowed her corrosive regrets and pushed the memories of his warmth and shadows down down down.. until they were bound and caged, left in a dark corner of her soul to be dealt with later or never.
Her smile drooped, and she made a face at the sky, huffing and giggling and utterly attempting to continue with her own distractions. She wanted to be careless, to be free; no longer tied to the gypsy boy who had shriveled her naïve little heart. Aislinn whirled, a billow of fireflies shooting upwards like stardust in the indigo night around her as she spun. With every soft bubble of laughter, every second of stupor tingling through her bones, and every step further from the castle, from him.. she slowly would forget. Until she was suddenly standing in the soft lapping waters of the lake, her gaze of bright blue flames taking in the reflecting silver light from the moon hanging high above her. Swishing her tail through the aqua, her nose sniffing at the purple flowers skimming the top of the small waves she created. Enchanted, her blood laced with sweet wine, and happy.
And as elated and forgetful as a child of the Night should ever be.
@asterion once he's approved dearie ♡
Set right after the events of the court of dreams! "Aislinn speech."
Once more he was a pilgrim, once more he was alone.
The boy had known there was no certainty, jumping into that yawning maw of feral magic, but some part of his hopeful dreamer’s heart had still thought that there might be a reunion on the other side. That all those he’d met in Ravos, the friendships that had taken root in his heart and tugged at keeping him planted, might be waiting for him. Instead there was nothing but this: a quiet meadow, grasses whispering under a twilight sky.
It was lovely, and lonely, and far better than death.
-
There was little to do, then, but begin walking. With the setting sun to his right he wanders south, dark eyes restless on the horizon even as the night turns silver and cobalt around him. It is summer here, wherever here is, and there is a little breeze that tousles his silver-shot mane and carries with it the scent of wildflowers and cedarsmoke. As the stars begin to emerge, cold silver to the cheery gold of the fireflies, he finds he recognizes none of the constellations.
But this discovery is forgotten, for the moment, in favor of another.
First it is her laughter that draws his attention, the sound like silver bells on some distant wind. The boy is helpless but to find the source of that noise; even if he weren’t so very new, so alone, he would seek it out. Carefree and wild, it lures him like a half-remembered dream and when the twilit bay finds her he can only stand and watch in wonder.
There are fireflies around her like faerie lights and her hair is silver as starlight. He is captured at once by the sight of her there, dancing alone in the summer night, like a creature in a story that will vanish with the dawn. Oh, but he wants her to stay -
With boyish boldness he steps forward, hungry to be near her, forgetting he is a stranger in a world he doesn’t know the name of. She steps into the lake and silver ripples around her; he’s half-convinced she’s made of moonlight.
Perhaps he is dreaming; perhaps he is dead.
Certainly it feels like something conjured, this wild summer night with the lake like glass and the silver-haired girl. Asterion finds he is standing at the shore; he finds he is smiling; he finds he has nothing to say, no clever thought in his foolish dreamer’s head, and so he only watches and wonders and waits.
your heart is a wild thing
made of stardust and thunder and hurricanes
The stars shimmered and whispered sweet nothings in her ear as the winged fae dipped her nose in the water playfully, blinking rapidly as she watched the silver waves rippling across the surface. With the tendrils of her mind — however uncontrolled they may be — she plucked a lavender blossom from the shore; and with a soft smile she tucked the bloom behind her ear. Her laughter was a musical, chiming sound that matched the song of the cicadas humming in the overhanging trees, and the night breeze that tousled her mane of starlight. Bliss hummed in her veins, like spun sugar coursing through her blood; the high of dancing and wine loosening all tension from her muscles, her body, her mind. She was elated, intoxicated by the beauty of moonbeams and the glow of fireflies fluttering around her like golden pixie dust. Her thoughts were empty save for her emotions — completely unaware that she was no longer alone — until suddenly, the fae turned to step out of the lake's silver waters.
Her enchanted revelry momentarily broken, the fae's wings drooped, her eyes blinking bright blue flames as her vision adjusted to accompany the stranger who now occupied her waking dream. Oxygen hitched in her lungs, burning like the harshness of sand paper. For at a first glance, through the growing darkness of Calligo's shadows, it appeared that he was here; had followed her from the gathering of celebrators that only answered to one king. Her heart slammed madly against her rib cage, until with each new blink, her mind saw the picture of the stranger clearer. Through the glow of fireflies and moonlight, the winged fae could finally see; the just off-kilter of an alabaster star, the glimmer of silver and rose and blue on his dark coat. Within moments she had realized this, her smile returning full-force as her happiness flooded through her bloodstream like a new sip of summer wine. She stepped forward, almost without even knowing she did, as if drawn to this new stranger like a moth to a flame.
As she neared him, stopping just shy of the water's edge before stepping onto dry land, her head tilted to the side as she blinked. One blink. Two. Three. With each one, the sight of him was clearer, no longer muddled by the mist of shadows and smoke. And she was sure of it; the shimmer of colors and silver shot through his mane. He was twilight-made-man; an entity of daydreams and wishes woven into flesh and bone and lovely things. Warmth rushes to her cheeks, and she suddenly wonders that if her coat had been the color of moondust if he could see the blush of rose there.. but no, instead, she is night-blessed and cobalt and a true daughter of Calligo. She diverts her gaze — just for a moment, embarrassed by this new rush of feelings — and the coins and feathers at her throat jingle at the movement. Her courage returns, however, as it always does, as her gaze of blue becomes brave enough to meet his of deepest brown.
For long moments, lovely silver-lit moments, Asterion goes unnoticed by the girl. How rare a thing, to see a stranger so unguarded; the bay would blush if he were able. Worry touches him like a shadow, wondering what she will think of him when inevitably she turns and catches him watching.
But though his dark legs tremble and urge him to go, he can no more draw his dreamer’s gaze from her than he can fly. His breath comes soft as prayer as she tucks a flower behind her ear, and suddenly he images he can smell it, slow and sweet and floral. Foolishly he wonders what starlight might smell like, wonders if she knows.
The boy hadn’t realized how fast his heart was beating until she turned and it caught in his throat.
Her eyes are a bright, vivid blue and they pin him with a gaze that burns hotter than he’d expected; he cannot read her expression. For a strange moment, it mirrors what he imagines his own must be; surely it’s nothing but shock that causes her dark chest to heave, nothing but anger at his spying that makes her eyes accuse. Asterion, who had been standing tall and bold with wonder, curls his chin toward his chest shyly, the tangle of his forelock slipping across one dark eye.
He’s just about to make some soft apology - has opened his mouth to - when her smile returns, outshining the moon. He’s never been met with a smile such as this one; not from his twin, not from the unicorn, not from any of those he might count as friends, if only they’d had more time. It only deepens his surety that this is some strange dream, but at least there he is at home - Asterion has had a thousand such adventures, in his dreams.
Even so, he does not step forward, but lets her draw nearer to him, watching the way the night shapes her. Without the full reflection of starlight on the lake, she becomes nearly fierce: the shadows love her, cling to her, highlighting the silver of her hair, the bold clear blue of her eyes, the light feather-tips of her wings. She’s taller than he’d thought, of a height with him —and what strikes him more than anything else is the way she reminds him of the unicorn, a slender, night-colored blade.
She might laugh like ringing bells, she might dance with only fireflies as an audience, but it is clear to him then that she is a wild thing in the same way as Calliope. A warrior.
But oh, is she a dreamer, too?
It’s nearly unbearable, the way she looks at him. Not only was it the absence of the anger he’d feared, but that smile, the joy there - he smiles in return, a slow draw on dark lips, and finally he steps forward, too.
So it is that he comes to face her, the water laughing soft around her ankles and the coins she wears laughing like starlight. When she turns her head, he admires the snip on her nose; when she meets his gaze again, he tries not to falter.
His smile is still at the sound of her voice, and her question makes him shake his head, rueful, the gesture so grave as to be almost amusing on such a young man and such a starlit night.
“No,” he answers her, and his voice is soft and grave, too. “I would remember.”
It’s then that he places her first expression. It had been recognition, and he wonders who would have cause to make her react such a way. The question rises to his tongue, but he is jealous of this moment, this meeting; he does not want to share it, not with the memory of somebody else.
Instead he tilts his head, regarding her shyly as a deer. It belies his words, which are spoken more boldly, though still quite serious. “But if we had met, it would feel like this. Like a dream, I mean.”
your heart is a wild thing
made of stardust and thunder and hurricanes
She is stardust and hurricanes where he is twilight and daydreams. Shadows hugged her curves, where silver moonlight caught and shimmered around the beautiful stranger — a beacon of light in Calligo's slumbering dark. Her skin is tingling, every nerve ending ablaze; blood coursing thick and hot and thrumming with the high of her dancing and summer wine. The fae's heart is a mad thing in her chest, the chambers of the beating organ cleaving open through it's old wounds as she watched helplessly as the strangers chin drooped. No — she thought, finding herself poised to take another step closer, to lift his chin to find his eyes of deep brown, to swim in the shadows and lose herself completely. She craved to see those eyes; a stranger she did not know, but oh how she wanted such a thing to change. He struck a chord in her that was threaded in the deep fathoms of her being; for she could not shake the strike of familiarity to him. The fae was sure of it.. the gods had crafted him from her wants and dreams; and here he stood not more than a few feet from her. A breathing, lovely wish bound by a dark coat and ivory star.
Her poor, broken little heart nearly bursts as warmth overflows it's four chambers as the stranger's smile returns; a slice of moonbeams in the smoke and shadows. She is drawn to that smile, like a magnet, for she cannot tear her gaze away from the allure of shimmering dusk in his ebony mane; the colors of dreams gracing his skin. Her orbs of blue are bound; and she finds that she does not want to look away as he steps forward to meet her. Her breath is shaking and catching as she realizes she had been holding it; waiting, wishing, hoping.. utterly unsure of what he would say. But she found that whatever he would reply was perfectly alright.. for he was a waking fragment of her dream. She was sure of it.
No.. I would remember.
The grave shudder of his crown sent a shiver of sorrow done her spine. His voice was soft, like a whisper that held so many emotions that she could not even begin to decipher. A delicate hoof pointed, she is about to move closer to him. The fae discovers that she wishes warmth to flood him with the rush of joy, like a downpour of sunshine to brighten the deep brown of his gaze. Up close now, she can feel it; the soft shudders of sewn pieces beginning to pull together in her chest. His words, his beauty, his presence.. they do not bleed her; they do not rip her open; and they do not cleave black holes in the starry expanse of her soul.
But if we had met, it would feel like this. Like a dream, I mean.
The tilt of his head has her tipping her own, her smile lovely on lighter velveteen lips. She does not intend to break his gaze; her orbs shining like bright blue fires in the darkness. His words ring true, the seriousness coating each syllable sending a quiver of reality through the haze surrounding them. Biting her lip, and without meaning too, the winged fae averts her gaze. The world is awash in silver starlight; a land of childhood dreams and fluttering fireflies. Closing her eyes, she tries to hold onto this moment; for she does not want to let it go. Oh no.. the fall to reality is steep and riddled with ache. She is not ready, for the stranger still stands before her as handsome as ever.
"I do not wish for this dream to end," the winged fae confessed, sadness tugging her lips into a half-smile. A cool night breeze sifts through her feathers and mane — Calligo's whispers in the dark — tugging at the flower tucked neatly behind her ear. Lavender petals flutter in the wind, landing one by one on the silvery water pooling around her ankles. Her gaze drifts downwards before slowly blinking up at the familiar stranger; taking note of the colors of his coat, and the threads of moonlight shot through his mane. She is like a girl traveling through a kingdom made of dreams; he the prince who resides in a castle of gold and the light crafted from burning stars.
Her right wing extends to it's full length, the stretch of each corded muscle sending shudders of relief through her bones. She tilts her head to the side with curiosity, her mane of silver and ink falling to the wayside in ripples. With each inhale her nerves burn hotter; her heart thundering like a storm in her ears, so loud she could have sworn the stranger could hear it.
"Will you dance with me?" she beckons, the stars shining like pearls as the night opens up around them in a song of cicadas and music that she could hear with perfect clarity. "This night is too lovely to waste."
The summer insects chirp and hum, a symphony absent to any other time of year but so perfectly suited for summer, for this night.
It only adds to the heady sense of dreaming, as the stars burn endless overhead and reflect on the lake, still save for the water that trembles around her legs. With every heartbeat he expects her to vanish; instead she lingers with each breath and grows more real. Too real – real enough to already begin to take root in his thoughts, in his heart.
Such is the problem with the boy’s twilight dreaming; every glorious night is followed by pale dawn.
But he is new and lost and lonely and sunrise is still so far off. Everything is new, most of all the way she looks at him, the blue of her eyes like a sky he’s not yet seen. The sky over El Dorado, or Shangri La. The sky he’s been chasing since he left the shore he was born on, the gulls all in mourning.
When she closes her eyes he fears he’s been too bold, and his heart trembles like a night-bird against the cage of his ribs until she speaks. Her words make him sigh the way the petals drift from her hair, a sweet, soft release.
Maybe it won’t, he wants to say; for all he knows, this world is one endless night, the stars wheeling but lingering, each breeze a balm against the summer heat. But it is too hopeful, too foolish a thought for even Asterion to give voice to. Still, he can’t help but draw nearer yet, until he stands at the edge of the lake where the moonlight-colored water sighs against the shore an inch from his dark hooves.
He watches her wing unfold and thinks of every fairy tale he knows. He thinks of heralds and angels, of phoenixes and fairies and Valkyries. And then she asks him to dance, and the twilight bay stops thinking altogether.
They are near enough their breaths could mingle, if only they reached for one another. They are near enough he can inhale the scent of her, moonlight and woodsmoke, wildflowers and the intangible things of this new country the magic has put him in. It’s not close enough; Asterion does not think there could be a close enough, with this stranger.
“Of course,” he breathes, as if it – all of them, all of this night – was a foregone conclusion. And then he smiles, shy and bold and dreaming, dreaming. “But only if you tell me your name.”
your heart is a wild thing
made of stardust and thunder and hurricanes
She is soaring, elated, and so blissfully happy that her child's heart is running a race, a whirlwind of emotion so lovely that she cannot process such a thing. But she does not care; no, not in the slightest. Her smile is genuine and no longer a phantom on her velveteen lips. Albeit shy, but with no lack of truth all the same; the winged fae blinks. He is so very real, and stars above does she hope with every fiber of her being, with every chord of her once-broken heart, that he stays. That he is reality; a living dream that crafted from her wishes made to stars and now breathes before her. Flesh and bone and beautiful things.. the colors of twilight clinging to him as Night's shadows love her own skin. Bless Calligo, she begins to realize that maybe, just maybe, he is no longer a figment of her imagination.
A shred of worry has begun to take her root in her heart, through the haze of summer wine still coursing through her veins and the bliss that has her flying. So so high, although her hooves still touch the ground. He is so very close to her now, the water's edge just a breath between them. The soft heat from his skin is lovely in the cooler summer evening; sending a sweet shiver down her spine, down the length of her wings, down to the tip of every feather.
She wonders then what it would feel like to touch his twilight skin; the softness, the warmth there like embers just beneath the beauty in his bay coat. If the silver shot in his mane is truly made of stardust and dreams woven into silk. She wonders so much, and wishes.. and hopes that the stars above can hear her silently, wishing wishing wishing.
Of course..
A sigh of relief ripples through her, and although she did not know it was possible, her smile grows wider still, reaching and lighting the bright blue of her eyes as if they were made of flames. Laughter bubbles in her throat, a musical, bell-like sound as she begins to step forward, to at last close the distance between them.
..but only if you tell me your name.
The fae looks away, suddenly shy, her child's grin drooping for just a moment. Through the thick mist of wine still thick in her blood, through the joy that burst in her and had her holding her breath, she shudders. A sliver of sorrow has her gaze torn away. A name was powerful; such a thing could be wielded as a weapon itself, to cause destruction and pain and agony that could rip apart worlds. Even a heart. She recalled the ache that had torn her own to a beating mess; barely held together with makeshift strings, every beat that kept her alive feeling like a dagger that twisted slowly in her chest. She remembered the holder of that dagger, and his words, but then.. she did not seem to care anymore.
Not when a man made of happiness and dreams itself stood before her; so very real. And oh yes.. he would dance with her beneath Calligo's sea of shimmering stars.
The moment passed, the fae blinked and all at once her gaze was bright and shining blue again, and she was surging forward. Silver beads of water dripped from her legs, and the lowest plumes of her wings as she closed the distance between them, however short it was. They were nearly touching foreheads before she turned to stand at his side, her left wing curled next to her body as she looked at him sidelong. Her soft lips were close to his own, her gaze blinking between what little distance that separated them and his eyes. Oh, how she drowned in his gaze, the depths of brown so deep that she could not help swimming in them. Lost, and bound by the mystery that lay there.
A soft whisper pulled at her, her voice drifting on the breeze. "Aislinn," she breathes, and then she was tugging him, a rush of fireflies bursting through the brush as she moved; a flurry of pixie dust that truly could have them soaring.
“Aislinn,” he repeats, loud enough for only her and the fireflies and the moonlight silver on the lake to hear it. Her name is a prayer, and the night is a poem, and the ending -
oh, may the ending never come.
For when it does, when dawn breaks (as it must), rose and gold and watchful - when it finds them -
then he will remember all the things he has willfully pushed away, in favor of this dream.
But it is not here yet. Here it still hovers around midnight, the smell of distant campfires a sweet fragrance on the breeze. The fireflies are embers in her hair, and Asterion has her name to carry like a bell in the highest tower of his heart. It makes the moment real, grounded in a way he is not when he looks into her eyes (is there any other world but her eyes?)
There is nothing more he needs to know, to say; his breath is only for taking in the scent of her, or catching at the way the starlight shimmers in her hair, or releasing slow and sweet each time they chance to touch. Gladly and foolishly he casts away his worry, his doubt, the questions that traveled with him from Ravos.
They are on land but his legs are damp, though he does not remember stepping into the lake; they dance as shadows below the stars to no music but the thrum of their hearts and the singing of crickets, the trilling of night-birds. Perhaps he is a ghost; only a creature of mist and dreaming could feel so feather-light. The bay dares to touch the silver of her mane, skimming it like a breeze, but keeps himself from pressing a kiss to the snip like a tear-drop on her nose; it is too much, too soon. They are strangers, dreamers, fools.
And below it all, below the whimsy and the wonder, a new worry whispers through his heart - that such a creature as Aislinn must certainly belong to another. The thought brings back that first expression she flashed at him, and he notices for the first time the scent of sweet, rich wine that clings to her, faint beneath the scent of campfire and cinnamon. He wonders, then, about the stars in her eyes and the bells of her laughter, and what is was that put them there.
He will not care; he pushes it away. Asterion finds that he has fallen still, that he is facing her; he can feel the warmth of her, a balm even on a summer’s night like this. He catches her eyes and his own are dark, heavy with dreams and want. Suddenly he is aware of each of their breaths, and the beating-beating-beating of his heart.
“May I?” he asks, so softly, as though to speak louder than a prayer would break the spell over them both.
And then the velvet of his dark lips finds the curve of her neck behind her ear, the soft down of a wing’s edge, each touch question and quest. For a boy who spent his colthood dreaming of adventure, he finds that all he wants to explore is here before him.
your heart is a wild thing
made of stardust and thunder and hurricanes
Aislinn.
His mouth forming her name and breathing it to life like the careful exhale of starting a slow-burning fire had her heart beating, mad and thundering. So so loud, and almost violent against the curved bones of her rib cage. She nearly feared that he could hear it — could hear the evidence of her nervousness and happiness. A trapped canary in the cage of her chest; oxygen hitched in her lungs as she collectively held her breath. A stranger of twilight and a prince that walked out of her dreams he was; sending her emotions heavensward, and she was elated. Floating, flying. Every nerve in her ebony body shocked with the electricity of lightning. His voice touching every syllable of her true name like a whisper that only they and the fireflies glowing around them as their witness.
And oh, did she want to dance with him in Calligo's gathering, beautiful darkness.
Her heartbeat quickened, her hooves featherlight on the soft earth, sweetgrass tickling her damp legs and her underbelly. She is happier than a child; innocent and lovely, seeing all of the joy in the world.. and that joy is him. Twilight and daydreams and burning stars woven into the silver of his mane and the colors of dusk brushing the cool darkness of his skin. His eyes a swimming galaxy — a portal to another world — that she becomes lost in, more and more with every stolen glance with her gaze of shining blue gems. Together, they are the moon and stars, flirting with shadows as they spin together and dance in the dark. Golden fireflies floating around them like glowing lights; pixie dust suspended in the air as they whirl, their bodies warm underneath the summer blanket of night.
Not another moment does he come into her mind; his voice, his haunting words, no longer shattering through her thoughts or the shredded pieces of her beating heart. For now, she is preoccupied, the glass shards of her soul slowly smoldering, burning, and becoming glued with strings the color of the paint kissing his skin — silver and blue and the barest touch of evening rose.
Suddenly they have stopped, but the world still spins around them; a globe of blurs and muted colors. Smoke and shadows and the sea of stars shimmering high above them. Her eyes do not fall on the stars above her, but on the ivory star marking the prince's crown. Beautiful and brighter than any star that blessed her skies, or marked the curve of her delicate neck in white ink. She focuses on his star, willing for the world to right itself, as she becomes hyper aware of their closeness, their proximity. So near, they could share breath; heat rising from the ebony of her skin. With careful blinks, Aislinn's gaze meets his own — bright blue flames falling into the depths of obsidian eyes so dark, she wonders if he, too, has been blessed by the demi-goddess of the endless Night.
May I?
His words are a promise, a whisper, a question. Before an answer touched her lips, his mouth brushed against the soft spot behind her ear. Behind the tuft of her silver hair tucked there, where a tattooed star lay hidden. So so gentle, so kind. A gasp is caught in her throat, and her eyes widen, surprised. But not unwanted.. for she craves the feeling of his touch. A beauty and desire coursing through her blood, thicker than the summer wine laced through her veins. Her breathing trembles, and she does not think of the gypsy king whom she had tumbled helplessly for, or the promise of his kiss on the wounded part of her wing. She does not think of her near confession, or the ache that bled her raw.
No.. she can only focus on the nerves behind her ear, where his lips touched the heat of her skin, and the sweet nothings that lay there now. Her thoughts are entirely of him, and the feeling of her heart suddenly beating with a steady rhythm; no longer sending shocks of agony and regret through her bones. He, a knight in shining armor, who had begun to shed light through the most chained, darkest parts of her broken soul. He, who danced with her under an expanse of starry skies and indigo. He, who stood before her, a dream made man. A walking testimony of a wish come true.
She did not want this dream to end. Not ever.
"Will I see you again?" she asks, breathless and blinking towards the prince that has stolen her heart, her soul, and gifted her with happiness and clouds made of spun sugar. She is sure of it now.. more than ever.
He could not guess how long they’ve stood beneath the naked skies, but those unfamiliar constellations have changed place. Crowns and birds and swords and giants, stranger’s shapes with stranger stories – they’re all wheeling away toward dawn.
And yet he does not feel tired; does one feel anything other than alive alive alive, in a dream?
Maybe they are both fools, starlight and fireflies blinding good sense. If he is a fool he is a blissful one. If he is a fool, he would stay a fool forever for this.
Will I see you again?
He presses his smile against the arch of her neck and wonders at the scent of cinnamon. “Every time you close your eyes,” he promises, mock-serious and emboldened, and traces again the scattering of white along her crest. Different constellations than the ones above them now – these he swears to learn, swears to set his path by.
But then he does wonder, himself homeless and this woman so clearly from some fae place of wine and woodsmoke. As soon as he pulls back from her the night air rushes in, colder than it ought to be. His heart bounds once more when his gaze meets those true-blue eyes again, but the question he has this time is decidedly different.
Asterion would stay by her side forever, if she would let him. But her question raises points he’d not yet considered.
He doesn’t even know what world he stands in.
“Why?” he asks, the question softly shaped, and there’s humor in it as well as genuine curiosity. “Have you had your fill of dancing?” For the first time he wonders what will become of them, come dawn.
