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[howtheyshine]

There's a break in the howling darkness. It's all he knows or needs to know. There's a break in his endless, roiling, bleak existence, a crack of light under a door that shouldn't exist, only exists because it's been forced.

There's a break in the darkness, and He leaps for it with abandon. Even oblivion would be better than the harrowing monotony of nightmares. He leaps, and plunges into cold and silence.

For a moment He doesn't know where he is, or maybe more accurately he is nowhere that should be. It's paralyzing, skewering, a death-beyond-death nothingness pain that lasts only for a breath--

--and then his consciousness careens into a field of firefly minds, bodies and beings, places to hide from what follows.

What follows?

He doesn't remember.

All he knows is that one of the fireflies is laced with starlight, and he streaks toward the beautiful shimmer of it without a second thought.

Comments

[howtheyshine]

There's the distinct foot-stomp sense of surliness, while a god who doesn't know he's a god decides whether or not saying please is an acceptable demand when he doesn't remember ever having to say it before.

[Fine! Please go out there.]

[withintenfeet]

"Thank you. ...Try to be patient, please."

Zerxus pushes himself up gingerly, taking a few small steps to test his balance. He keeps his bedroom neat and simple (or, one could say, cold and barren); there's nothing to trip over, and nothing to impede the warmth of the sun. It's hesitant, and a bit wobbly, but he makes his way in the right direction.

He can feel it beneath his feet when the sturdier stone of the main tower transitions to smoother marble, and it gives him the confidence to quicken his stride until his hands rest on the rail.

[howtheyshine]

The second-hand wonder Zerxus can feel intensifies as they step into the sun. No, he can't feel the warmth of that light, but he knows that it is warm.

And the city... The city.

[I-It's... so... It's so alive.]

[withintenfeet]

He remembers, vaguely, beholding the city of Avalir with the awe of a child. More clearly, he remembers a more tempered intrigue warmed with hope and passion and love.

All of that is tarnished now with bitterness and resentment, which of course doesn't touch the god looking through him. For the first time in years, Zerxus feels something like pride.

"There are thousands of people here."

[howtheyshine]

[Thousands...]

Living, breathing souls, walking in the light, free of and blind to the chaos that waits on the other side of existence. It's a marvel. An impossible beauty.

[Is that a plant? What's that-- oh.]

Right.

[Uh, down on the street below, there's a... a... a multi-legged creature of some kind, made of metal, with people wearing so many colors they look like a box full of gemstones riding on top.]

[withintenfeet]

'Oh'. He does bristle at that, right up until he hears the description and it thrusts him back fourteen years. Wide-eyed and fascinated despite himself, pelting Nydas with questions and delighting in small wonders that Evandrin took for granted.

"That's an automaton - they aren't exactly alive, the way mortals are. Mages enchant them to do certain things; carrowhulks carry people to different places around the city."

Carefully, gripping that rail a little more tightly, he leans forward to offer a better look.

[howtheyshine]

[They're not alive?]

He is himself absolutely fascinated, enough so that he almost misses Zerxus's small flare of temper. Almost.

[What are you mad ab-- What's that human doing?

Uh, they're standing at the front of the metal bug, the carrowhulk, raising their hands and talking to the air, I think--ah! It disappeared! It vanished, the whole thing!]

[withintenfeet]

It's pure instinct that has Zerxus leaning further, as if that will help him even slightly. He's fairly sure he knows what just happened, but observing the aftermath would be nice.

"I'm guessing that someone important was in a hurry." The words are heavy with disdain, and it almost distracts him from crucial details. "That was magic - arcane, not divine. Most spells need - "

He stops abruptly as yet another realisation socks him directly in the face.

Oh, fuck.

[howtheyshine]

Well that's an odd an unfamiliar combination of emotions.

[What? What is it?]

[withintenfeet]

He takes a second to refocus, because he was about to give important information and he still needs to do that so -

"Spells need components. Verbal for almost all of them, and most also need certain gestures." He's performed them enough that he probably doesn't need to see what he's doing - but that only goes for magic he already knows. And finally, most worryingly...

"And a lot of them rely on sight. What that human just did, for example."

[howtheyshine]

[Oh.]

There's a sense of him hunkering down somewhere in Zerxus's senses, not digging in so much as making a smaller target.

[Well. Do you need spells like that? Can I do them for you?]

[withintenfeet]

It's the same swell of helpless panic, then the same dam of stubborn duty and pride.

"I do, and I...don't know." He swallows, fingers flexing around the dawn-warmed stone. "But I'm not angry at you, I'm just worried. I have a job to do, we don't have much time - "

He's so distracted that he doesn't hear Tempus coming.

[howtheyshine]

That's okay, his passenger has definitely noticed.

He's paralyzed somewhere between awe and terror.

[Oh-- W... There's a creature approaching from the sky, made from indigo and starlight, with... with massive wings, and four-legged body, and the head of a bird of some kind. It's coming straight-- straight toward us.]

[withintenfeet]

It's like a balm applied directly to his raw nerves - metaphorically, but also spiritually a little bit, as the channel between Zerxus and his steed opens. He can't see him, but Zerxus shifts to face Tempus with ease.

To both of them, soft and steady, "It's all right."

There's a skeptical edge to the griffon's presence, but he lets Zerxus rest an assuring hand on his neck. "This is Tempus. He's - "

The response is more like the rumbling echo of solar winds than words or even syllables, but somehow the meaning is clear:

I'm his keeper. Who are you?

[howtheyshine]

Hang on sorry Tempus there's some awe being processed here.

[I'm... I'm...] He flounders, trying to find something convincing and impressive. Something that won't make him look weak or vulnerable to Zerxus or the beautiful creature glaring at him somehow, through its knight. [I am the god that took his eyes.]

[withintenfeet]

To say Tempus bristles is an understatement; his fur is distant nebulas given texture, and the stars flare as it ripples and rises. At one remove from this being, all he hears is cruelty, and the flare of protective fury is inevitable.

Zerxus is bristling too, even as his eyes water for reasons he can only suspect. But he's closer to the core of things, to awe and insecurity and something so strangely, violently young.

"Tempus, it's not -"

Give them back.

[howtheyshine]

[Never.] It's a snarl. One Zerxus can feel a hint of panic behind.

What's he going to do? Can he fight this creature? How? Does he want to?

[I don't bow to you.]

(No, that's the the one that follows, who is it, who is it?)

[I don't bow to anyone!]

[withintenfeet]

"No one is bowing and no one is fighting." It may be a surprise, how easily that soft voice thunders with authority.

"Tempus, this is the god who needed a place to go. I gave him that of my own free will." The griffon cocks his head with clear scepticism; Zerxus misses the gesture, but he can feel the impulse behind it. "I mean it. He's one of ours, now, just like - "

The comparison sticks in his throat, but it's enough; the aggression melts away, and Tempus leans forward to gently press his beak against his paladin's forehead.

Try again.

[howtheyshine]

He is not nervous he is not afraid he is not either of those things. He does not wish he could touch Tempus's celestial feathers to see if they feel like a cosmos he doesn't remember.

[L... Like who? Try what?]

Try something to get him out? Banish him again? (Again, that's an interesting word to come up, again.)

He wants to ask Zerxus if the man is angry with him but he can't manage to pull his pride in enough to say it. He wants to ask if Tempus can hurt him but the creature can hear him. He doesn't want it to think he's anything but confident.

[Who are you talking about?]

Probably best if they aren't focused on him at all. And information, information with feelings attached, that's valuable.

[withintenfeet]

The torrent of anxiety meets a sea of calm, in the wake of Tempus's understanding.

"He wants you to explain properly. No threats, no posturing." Firm but gentle, with the sort of confidence that doesn't rely on fear.

Moments later, though, it's made clear that the tranquil composure only goes so far. He'll answer the question, but he won't do it out loud, and even his inner voice lacks the rock-solid steadiness.

I have a son. Do you understand what that is?

[howtheyshine]

A pause, a twinge of wariness. But he's more curious than ever.

[Progeny. A child.]

Though from his tone, the understanding is clearly academic.

[withintenfeet]

Yes.

How does he explain this in a way that resonates, that really -

We aren't related by blood, but he was still an infant when I met him. Still so new to the world, still learning what all of those sounds and colours and sensations meant, and how to reach back himself. Who he could trust, when he was scared or lost or in pain. Where he came from, and what kind of person he wanted to be.

There's an ache in the words, a pulse of guilt and yearning dull and steady as a drumbeat. It doesn't undercut the vast swell of love and pride.

[howtheyshine]

Zerxus' feelings bleed over as he explains, leaving the entity overwhelmed again.

He sounds a bit like he'd be stomping his foot if he had one.

[I am not an infant. I have existed since before the dust that made your oldest ancestors and I will exist until all is dust again.]

A pause, and his words go stilted with embarrassed awe. [I just... haven't seen... life, in a long time.]

[withintenfeet]

Interesting. Just then, you sounded about twelve years old.

No staggered unease or wary intrigue, just wryly amused warmth that neatly punctures his griffon's ire before it rises again.

[howtheyshine]

[Wh--!]

He catches himself instead of giving another cranky protest.

There's a sense of attention being turned back to Tempus. He's trying so hard to stay officious.

[I... I was... somewhere dark. Dead. And- I escaped.]

The word dark carries a mountain of weight.