It has been something slightly more than fifteen years since he finally buried Gregor. It had been difficult between them since he'd begun edging up to fifty, had only gotten worse over time. Petty fights about worthlessness and age and beauty and, mundanely enough, money and infidelities, things that... simply did not concern Jast. His lack of
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Niarkhos is too old to wonder at simple trivialities, hadn't asked and hadn't received until the opportunity presented itself accidentally, and he won't pick over why his cat companion unlocked the mystery of the little thing's name before he could. He instead shushes Jast with a quiet, lilting sound at that apology and leads him to a fork of bark. The branch extends over land, long and open, choked with wildflowers and the occasional dusky scent of ground animal. Field grass burns gold under the rising sun.
"I never minded. Your voice made ( ... )
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He isn't sure he appreciates the bird's diffidence, not fully. He is no glutton for reprimand, but it was a lie by omission no matter how the lack was filled. He can't make himself protest it though. Niarkhos' enthusiasm for the world around them is too pleasant to want to ruin with complaints. Dangerous, charming creature that he is, Jast is responsive to the falcon's dismissive little chirp. He flushes with pleasure at such blatant flattery. His sensibility is distracted at the moment, still riding the euphoria from that beautiful memory. It makes him too happy to stand next Niarkhos and listen.
"More than one seems excessive," Jast observes, smiling quietly to himself.
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He's never been distracted during flight, it isn't something that happens even to an animal that has been through the motions for so many years, but the pull of wind on his flank is a lulling purgatory he gives himself to, lets his mind wander within. Often unaccompanied on his longer journeys where even other birds tire and hang back, Niarkhos is left to his solitary thoughts.
Their shoulders touch where they stand side by side on the branch, a graze of fabric as Niarkhos steps forward, momentum thrown, steps off and into open air.
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Niarkhos' movement startles him a moment, he doesn't actually think the bird will fall, but he is used to the fluid push from man and beast and back again. He had expected to see him catch wing and drift immediately. The wind stirs under him uncertainly as he snatches an upper branch to hold onto as he leans out.
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Trilling laughter follows in the bird's wake in his fast, horizontal soar toward the distant end of the rolling meadow, wildflowers fluttering with the breeze kicked up by powerful gusts of flight.
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He drops down out of the oak quietly. His heart goes out to the poor lonesome creature. For all his isolation, Jast still has his chains to those like him, can feel them at their work all across the earth. He can hardly fathom the lack of it. He pulls his sneakers off so that he can feel the ground under him, has always hated socks, so that leaves him with bare feet. He dangles the shoes lazily from his fingertips as he wades out into the tall, brittle grass.
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Niarkhos drops down, gold against the flushed morning sky, joins him in graceful landing. Smiling proud and majestic, settles to walk alongside Jast, shoulder to shoulder. "Do you have a favorite place, little one? I'm sure you've discovered countless spots hidden by nature, seeing how its taken to you."
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The question itself is less pleasant, as it brings to mind old memories that make his heart ache terribly. He did have a favorite place, a long long time ago and he hasn't gone back since. He and Gregor had just never gotten around to it. He thinks it would end in nothing but tears if he went back now.
"No," he answers, shaking his head, he pushes up a smile. "It's all too beautiful to pick only one."
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"I might agree," the bird twitters ambiguously, lets it go at that, offering a small secretive smile at the corners. He gently tugs Jast to a stop, presses that smile to the little one's cheek where the flush lingers, touches with a faint flicker of tongue before gracefully moving apart and pulling Jast with him. The grass crinkles under their bare feet, flowers giggling.
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"A lake. North, a long ways. I... caught the stars there. Once." What he's confessing with that is uncomfortable for him, but he knows it isn't obvious to the prince, who hardly knows him. His heart throbs thinking of those who would understand, but it just isn't fair to hold that dream of old Europe and then stay so quiet. Balance is important to him, is written into everything he is, everything he does.
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But he searches for beauty and the stars are an embellishment of his territory in their own right, a stunning adornment of uncut diamonds. The gyrfalcon hangs back, loose hand pushing up through feathery hair to see the endless pure cerulean of those eyes. "Catch them again," he urges, does not clarify what exactly he means before touching their foreheads together, warm reassurance, then drawing back a step to give Jast his
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Yet, Jast considers this. The memory of the moon high overhead, framed on all sides by the dark silhouettes of the forest. It had been high summer, warm with clear skies and he had gazed up from the sandy shore and listened to all the moon's lonely arias. She had been so near the Earth, he could have touched her, dipped his hand beneath her quicksilver surface and felt the slow drip of time on his skin. He had begged a boon instead. Had wanted to show Gregor the stars as he saw them, glittering living things with voices and beauties unique to each and she had consented to send her cousins down. He'd caught them in the smooth mirror of the lake, thanked them with long-forgotten prayers, musical apotheosis that set them dancing along the glistening fins of tiny flitting fish.
He had given someone his heart there amongst the concurrence of captured stars. He shouldn't have ( ... )
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He can smell a rogue seaberry bush nearby and pulls his friend along to it, plucking up a handful of small orange berries. They're delicious citrusy little things that survive long into the winter. He picks out a juicy one carefully and pushes it straight past Niarkhos' lips, pausing there with an amused expression to see if he will object.
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"A treat of yours?" he asks, reaching to pluck a few more from the branch and rolling them curiosily over the dips and grooves of a cupped palm.
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