Between the two of them, Dilan had always been the eloquent one, the cunning and charismatic one, the silver-tongued natural orator who could put people exactly where he wanted; he could whisper poison just as easily as honey into people's ears. When he really wanted to, he could almost rival Ienzo for sheer cleverness and talent for working people over. He spoke, and so Aeleus had rarely ever needed to. Aeleus had simply listened instead, and acted in his wake, been a companion as quiet and constant as Dilan's shadow. In a way, it had helped them both learn to read each other, learning and growing together, and each helping to provide what the other lacked. They had settled into a comfortable, close, trusting balance, lifetimes ago when they were both young.
(Some small part of him had died long ago, even beyond the loss of his heart, when he had truly realized that Xaldin of all people had forsaken even him. It had helped to shape him into the man he'd become, the way natural forces couldn't help but erode stone, and taught him hard-earned lessons about life and bonds and battles alike. Lexaeus had given up on Xaldin, as he had given up on nearly everyone and everything, because to do anything else would be utterly futile--you couldn't capture the wind, after all. And even if it could be bound, why would he ever want to, when he'd still be left with nothing in the end? Better to just accept the reality of what had happened, even if it wasn't quite so literal as all that--his friend had quite simply vanished into thin air.)
He didn't need to say much to reveal what Dilan really wanted to know. He wasn't as haggard as Dilan had been, nor as haunted-looking; if he had nightmares, then they weren't nearly as profoundly disturbing to him. He looked to Dilan's shoulder when the man touched it, and his gaze lingered for a long moment, searching, before returning to Dilan's face; if something hadn't struck him as off enough to note the gesture as significant, then he hardly would have bothered. His grave expression didn't falter at the idea of being stalked and hunted; obviously, he hadn't had such a viscerally horrifying near-death experience, whatever Lexaeus might do to him in his dreams. Even so, that he wouldn't deny it, that he actually had to consider the matter, suggested that they weren't unflinchingly positive dreams or simple memories, either.
".....No. He's followed me often enough, or hidden in my shadow--but he's never lifted a hand against me that I recall."
His lips pressed into a thin line; a shoulder wound wasn't generally fatal, barring extreme circumstances. It was an incapacitating blow, a strike that (if efficiently wielded) potentially crippled a limb and rendered someone partially helpless, unable to fight back. Struck with a lance, as Dilan and Xaldin both used, it could also be used to capture someone, to run them through and very literally pin them down to something soft and sturdy enough to accept the blade. He could already picture the scene: Dilan sprinting through a darkened wood like a terrified hare, and Xaldin hot on his heels, pursuing in effortless gliding leaps and bounds that were less running than flying. Finally boxing in his prey by herding him into a path too impassible to flee through, or flushing him out into an unprotected glade with nowhere to hide, his lances would whirl around him in a deadly maelstrom of moonlit steel, taking aim to rain down a torrent of blades--or maybe simply sending just one arcing down with all the cruel force and accuracy of a lightning strike, just to show that he could--
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-07-19 10:20 pm (UTC)(Some small part of him had died long ago, even beyond the loss of his heart, when he had truly realized that Xaldin of all people had forsaken even him. It had helped to shape him into the man he'd become, the way natural forces couldn't help but erode stone, and taught him hard-earned lessons about life and bonds and battles alike. Lexaeus had given up on Xaldin, as he had given up on nearly everyone and everything, because to do anything else would be utterly futile--you couldn't capture the wind, after all. And even if it could be bound, why would he ever want to, when he'd still be left with nothing in the end? Better to just accept the reality of what had happened, even if it wasn't quite so literal as all that--his friend had quite simply vanished into thin air.)
He didn't need to say much to reveal what Dilan really wanted to know. He wasn't as haggard as Dilan had been, nor as haunted-looking; if he had nightmares, then they weren't nearly as profoundly disturbing to him. He looked to Dilan's shoulder when the man touched it, and his gaze lingered for a long moment, searching, before returning to Dilan's face; if something hadn't struck him as off enough to note the gesture as significant, then he hardly would have bothered. His grave expression didn't falter at the idea of being stalked and hunted; obviously, he hadn't had such a viscerally horrifying near-death experience, whatever Lexaeus might do to him in his dreams. Even so, that he wouldn't deny it, that he actually had to consider the matter, suggested that they weren't unflinchingly positive dreams or simple memories, either.
".....No. He's followed me often enough, or hidden in my shadow--but he's never lifted a hand against me that I recall."
His lips pressed into a thin line; a shoulder wound wasn't generally fatal, barring extreme circumstances. It was an incapacitating blow, a strike that (if efficiently wielded) potentially crippled a limb and rendered someone partially helpless, unable to fight back. Struck with a lance, as Dilan and Xaldin both used, it could also be used to capture someone, to run them through and very literally pin them down to something soft and sturdy enough to accept the blade. He could already picture the scene: Dilan sprinting through a darkened wood like a terrified hare, and Xaldin hot on his heels, pursuing in effortless gliding leaps and bounds that were less running than flying. Finally boxing in his prey by herding him into a path too impassible to flee through, or flushing him out into an unprotected glade with nowhere to hide, his lances would whirl around him in a deadly maelstrom of moonlit steel, taking aim to rain down a torrent of blades--or maybe simply sending just one arcing down with all the cruel force and accuracy of a lightning strike, just to show that he could--
"How badly?"