anyone;

[Trystane]

*****He reflects back to her the stardust above, her soft frame, and the envelope of darkness that holds them all together. But the magnitude of his tenderness is not translated. It remains foreign to her, behind the shield of his pupils; under his skin, where his blood pumps red and he imagines this is what it must be like to stand in the eye of a storm. Calm and perilous, with everything that goes with affection threatening to storm around them. *****Be it loss, or loneliness in absence. Or overwhelming passion, and euphoria. The trappings of love, and this is like what he thinks early love is meant to feel like. The seed and sapling of it, anyway. Otherwise it is young fervor in its naked hastiness;  they are indiscernible to his unfledged heart, having experienced neither in any meaningful measure before. If he could transcribe to her what he sees, he would write it in the grass and flowers and guiding stars. He would make it so she could feel, without any language barrier, exactly how he feels. But he can’t. He could tell her. *****But he can’t even do that. *****“I was, I am sure of it,” A falling leaf had made her bright. Like someone entirely unencumbered by perception, not compelled by age, light in homour and character – and there is beauty in all of those things; and that is why, despite his tiredness, he was drawn to her. “I was never raised to be a hermit, anyway.” Not true, technically. Vineine had never intentionally isolated him, but her intentions made no matter. Her boy had grown up alone, but mercifully, without feeling like it. *****“I think Viera might be gone,” He mutters, a bit absent as he searches his brain for what he remembers of her. But it is nothing. Or close enough, and so is regressed deep where all the other seemingly irrelevant information hides. “Not forever, probably. My mother likes to think she’ll come back to visit at least. But who knows.” He feels he is spread thin by their coyness, and she must be too, because there is something expectant in the air. He shifts, and in a moment of courage, reaches out slowly and gently, so as not to spook her and touches her neck just, then draws a deliberate line with his muzzle to the largest star adorning the highest peak of the sky. “I’ve always been told to take that as a guide. It’s always there, in that same direction.” He clears his throat, “All the other little ones around it, too. We could pick a formation and follow it.” A silly idea, of course. But he likes the poetry of it. “And if we don't find anything, we only need to turn our backs to it.” *****He shrugs a bit, looking back at her, “Well, at least with your brothers, we have places to start.” Trystane.