There is nothing deliberate in an effort to share a dream, or experience it, or see if it might be influenced. While admittedly Lahabrea is curious, too concerned is he that he might poison any potential dreams that might come with the dragon's eternal, endless ferocity and wrath. Terrible enough that he had to endure it, to inflict it on another ... especially one so rare in his own emotions that it might not be recognized as an external source?
No.
He couldn't allow it. He could't let the beast drag them both down.
But over the passage of time, Lahabrea too grows tired. In spite of his firm alliance with Zodiark he was ever a creature of diurnal habits, and staying awake all night every night was beyond him. The dragon weighs on it, for it too prefers the daylight to the night, and only once he's certain Elidibus isn't about to sweat him into soddenness with feathery absorption does he allow his awareness to fade. In time it means moving again, a slow and unwaking shift until he has the rather smaller Ascian thoroughly wrapped in arms and tail; where there cold to be had, it wouldn't reach there, in a shroud of crimson and gold.
And in dreams, a spark of fire of a different hue weaves across the burning distant horizon. It's there, again and again.
A flash of feathers and streaming fiery tail as meteors crawl inevitably groundward, bright and shining and as far away as those meteors themselves. The glass and steel of mixed Amaurotine and Aefenglom construction reflect no meteorfall, but that distant burning spot does.
It's easy to miss. There's so much else going on.
But it's there. It's always there, when it shouldn't be, a faraway gleam within a shroud of darkness, one more voice rising in the chorus of fear and horror and confusion. A forgotten melody, high and wild and full of an elation so intense it is pain; it doesn't belong here.
It belongs here. It's always been there. Hadn't it?
Hadn't it?
There's a sound, as Elidibus reaches towards futile disappearing forms. If a hearthfire had a song, if flame could soothe, gentle what it touches, if the merry crackle of a bonfire on a cool autumn night had music of its own, then it would be that sound. It doesn't drown out the darkness, it never could. But what it can do is seed the dark with a million pinpoints of burning light shaken off its wings in showers of sparks.
"The song too heals, like its magic. If it is allowed to. It cannot live in an unwilling heart."
In the distance, a spark dances - flaming wings and burning tail and an eye as bright as the dawn, not ... quite the shape of a dragon. A bird, only a bird, though at most one of its kind ever in existence at any given moment, and its claws shape the distant stars into recognizable formations, one by one.
no subject
No.
He couldn't allow it. He could't let the beast drag them both down.
But over the passage of time, Lahabrea too grows tired. In spite of his firm alliance with Zodiark he was ever a creature of diurnal habits, and staying awake all night every night was beyond him. The dragon weighs on it, for it too prefers the daylight to the night, and only once he's certain Elidibus isn't about to sweat him into soddenness with feathery absorption does he allow his awareness to fade. In time it means moving again, a slow and unwaking shift until he has the rather smaller Ascian thoroughly wrapped in arms and tail; where there cold to be had, it wouldn't reach there, in a shroud of crimson and gold.
And in dreams, a spark of fire of a different hue weaves across the burning distant horizon. It's there, again and again.
A flash of feathers and streaming fiery tail as meteors crawl inevitably groundward, bright and shining and as far away as those meteors themselves. The glass and steel of mixed Amaurotine and Aefenglom construction reflect no meteorfall, but that distant burning spot does.
It's easy to miss. There's so much else going on.
But it's there. It's always there, when it shouldn't be, a faraway gleam within a shroud of darkness, one more voice rising in the chorus of fear and horror and confusion. A forgotten melody, high and wild and full of an elation so intense it is pain; it doesn't belong here.
It belongs here. It's always been there. Hadn't it?
Hadn't it?
There's a sound, as Elidibus reaches towards futile disappearing forms. If a hearthfire had a song, if flame could soothe, gentle what it touches, if the merry crackle of a bonfire on a cool autumn night had music of its own, then it would be that sound. It doesn't drown out the darkness, it never could. But what it can do is seed the dark with a million pinpoints of burning light shaken off its wings in showers of sparks.
"The song too heals, like its magic. If it is allowed to. It cannot live in an unwilling heart."
In the distance, a spark dances - flaming wings and burning tail and an eye as bright as the dawn, not ... quite the shape of a dragon. A bird, only a bird, though at most one of its kind ever in existence at any given moment, and its claws shape the distant stars into recognizable formations, one by one.