glacevoleur » Lair » Auriel

Auriel

(#14668144)
a hopeless romantic-- emphasis on the hopeless
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Energy: 28/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Light.
Male Spiral
This dragon cannot breed until Jun 07, 2024 (16 days).
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Biography

"So what was it?" they ask him, circled up in the dark of the Hewn City in the nighttime.

He, vibrating slightly, imperceptibly, a wire electrified and strung too tight, feels a bit like he is on trial. "I don't know," he says, pauses; the crackling of the fire does not fill in the gaps. "I don't know."

They are a siege of questions. He is a castle with no answers. The air is very dark, and very still.


* * *

"Have you been by there recently?" a female Mirror asks him. Her eyes are very pale, and very bright.

"Once," he says, and goes back to whittling. He is not making the wood into a shape, but into nothing.

"What was it like?" she asks.

"Like a big game of Clue," he tells her. "It's a whodunit sort of mystery now."

She pauses, furrows her brow and blinks all four eyes at him. "Well?" she asks, and when he doesn't answer, "Who did it?"

"They all did," he replies, nicking a scale off the side of his finger with the pocket knife in a way that is more careless than accidental. "They all did it to themselves."

* * *

He has a mate later, another Mirror, a redder one. He does not bring her flowers, though he thinks to, once, briefly; he cannot fathom why. He names the stars for her instead. She is enraptured. He cannot fathom why; they seem very cold, and very far away.

He tends to the nest and names all of the hatchlings when he thinks they are old enough. Their mother is confused, perhaps angry-- he can't say. She leaves not long after that. He wishes he felt deeply enough to miss her, but her absence scarcely leaves a wound.

He's accustomed to picking off scabs, anyway.

* * *

He sets another pair up, later on. He isn't sure why. Perhaps it's just something to do.

They are as bright, beautiful, and short-lived as a fireworks display. He thinks he likes it best that way, when a romance is like ripping off a bandage secured with wax-- very fast, but very painful.

They leave scarcely any trace when they move on, leaving him behind-- but that's alright, he thinks he left himself behind, long ago. What remains is nothing but dust and feathers, a slight cough, a hiccup. He is only a pair of luminous eyes, watching from up in the rafters. He is only a circuit of cobweb and spider, waiting for the next tremble of the signal thread.

* * *

No one stays in the barracks. His living here is an exercise in periphery, a study of holding one's breath underwater. He knows more than enough about liminal spaces. He thinks, sometimes, that if he managed to be completely still, he'd be able to feel the faint energy of bodies coming and going, and let it sway him like a leafless tree in a late autumn wind.

There are two others who roost here. The female reminds him of someone, and simultaneously, of no one at all. Something about her is as cold and as tempered as steel. He thinks her loose feathers must be dripping with ink. A tear in her hide would let out some cold gust of air and a flurry of yellowed parchment, crowded with notes and mathematical calculations. She crowds the barracks with sleepers on the weeks when the trainees run through. Is that what her narrowed head is for, he wonders. Is that what it looks like when things are done in the open, rather than under wooden floorboards. He cannot recall. The memory of how things were is very faint, and very distant.

The male is a Pearlcatcher who is always wanting to itch out of his own skin. Auriel does not ask him how it happened. His eyes are luminous and he already knows. He does not ask. He is a snake in a hawk's nest. She is accustomed to taking what she wants, so he makes himself undesirable. She believes that everything within these four walls is hers to rule, so he removes himself from her sphere of knowledge. He cannot be captured with digits and figures.

And oh, isn't there something in the iron, the frigid metal, the wit of it. Isn't it funny, the power to see, to know, to be something that he should not. If she were aware, she of the has-nothing wants-everything hunger, surely she would set upon him like a pack of wolves. But there is something to be said about the bird's-eye view--

it neglects the knowledge of the things living in the dust.

needs accent: cascading sun
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