"It's been years since I went out sailing, more than just around island chains," he chuckles back, and he likes the idea; he likes the sea more than mountains. The Atlantic has always seemed to mirror his moods, stormy and treacherous as the water can be; he remembers crossing the ocean the first time so long ago and how impossible it seemed then. And he's run into his fair share of pirates, with just about every outcome he can think of. Dying--on their part--would seem to be one of the more positive ones.
He hums in agreement to Armand's remembrance that the world seemed smaller, knowing it had. It had been smaller, for a long time when the wilderness between scattered groups of people was still terrifying and untameable, even for cities as great as Rome, and Troy, and Paris. The dark and the unknown had been the masters of travel in more ways than could be easily listed. And sometimes even now they still did. He leans gently into his friend when he's asked to tell more about his children, and he has to think for a moment. "My first child was a little boy--not mine by birth. I remember he wanted to learn to read so badly when he saw me writing something. He'd never seen anyone do it before, he thought it was magic. His name was Azmi, and...he understood at least some of what I was." Few of his children had, even though he couldn't blame them. There was only so much a human, a mortal, could understand. "My only child by blood was a daughter, Melisande. We called her Meli, and...I loved her. She looked so much like me, and she loved to dance if I played music for her. She loved to play, to be happy. I still have her portrait." He's never without it, no matter where or how quickly he has to move. "I've had so many children to raise. Every child deserves someone to love them." It's been an unpopular opinion at many points in time, though he has stood by it.
"The tiles, though...they're the only thing I've ever found that still exists of my home. There are fewer and fewer every time I go back, but these few I have. And they keep me tethered to where I came from." He did not come from Olympus. He will not go back there. But he knows Armand has lived through equally bad--or worse--things, and takes his hand softly, twining their fingers for a moment and squeezing. "Have you ever been back?" he asks, as they round a corner, and Ganymede is faced with an image he never thought he'd see: himself. A restored, frescoed bit of wall with his face on it.
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He hums in agreement to Armand's remembrance that the world seemed smaller, knowing it had. It had been smaller, for a long time when the wilderness between scattered groups of people was still terrifying and untameable, even for cities as great as Rome, and Troy, and Paris. The dark and the unknown had been the masters of travel in more ways than could be easily listed. And sometimes even now they still did. He leans gently into his friend when he's asked to tell more about his children, and he has to think for a moment. "My first child was a little boy--not mine by birth. I remember he wanted to learn to read so badly when he saw me writing something. He'd never seen anyone do it before, he thought it was magic. His name was Azmi, and...he understood at least some of what I was." Few of his children had, even though he couldn't blame them. There was only so much a human, a mortal, could understand. "My only child by blood was a daughter, Melisande. We called her Meli, and...I loved her. She looked so much like me, and she loved to dance if I played music for her. She loved to play, to be happy. I still have her portrait." He's never without it, no matter where or how quickly he has to move. "I've had so many children to raise. Every child deserves someone to love them." It's been an unpopular opinion at many points in time, though he has stood by it.
"The tiles, though...they're the only thing I've ever found that still exists of my home. There are fewer and fewer every time I go back, but these few I have. And they keep me tethered to where I came from." He did not come from Olympus. He will not go back there. But he knows Armand has lived through equally bad--or worse--things, and takes his hand softly, twining their fingers for a moment and squeezing. "Have you ever been back?" he asks, as they round a corner, and Ganymede is faced with an image he never thought he'd see: himself. A restored, frescoed bit of wall with his face on it.