The Academy: preludes to forever;

In the magic hour, the minutes pass just as quickly as the seconds, whereby they possess and flee the gentle hourglass; and there they stand, the two of them, the beacon and it’s fire, both searching for things unseen. And perhaps they are more alike than he thought at first -- both cast aside, both searching, wanting, needing. It is with the unspoken glances of understanding, of Knowing without truly Knowing, that make DaVinci and Astarte similar. His dapples, moistened by the dew of the fog soak in the irrelevance of the evening (and oh, he wonders, is it dawn? How much time has passed?)

And then a question, lost in the night, surfaces again as Astarte breathes and he breathes and they breathe in the dwindling fog of the Academy, nearly unconvinced of the dismal cry of the Jaeger, or the plaintive whisper of the wolf; and DaVinci speaks, the veil of his mane falling softly like the quiet cascade of waterfall down over his eyes, dark eyes -- “The promise of forever.” And even whispers are not enough as his comfortingly soprano voice resounds within the walls (oh, invisible walls!) of the Academy and float past the Garden’s gates, past the willow trees and past the fragrant lilies. Farther past, even, than the preludes of time and all that has come before.

Tick, tock.

... daVinci