"Go check out an island, he says, as if he's just going to get a new shirt," Ganymede laughs, intrigued by the way Armand just floats plans into existence as if a wave of his hand could plot out the many intricacies of large plans for people like them. Money is usually the least of their worries: while money has to, on paper, always come from somewhere documentable, once you have a certain amount most places stop paying so much attention to it. Ganymede knows it as well as Armand does. "I could go with you, though. I think I'd like that, getting away from...everything."
They function on a different timeline, immortal as they are. Days are inconsequential, but the rhythm of the world, natural and immovable and implacable as it is can be soothing in ways that are hard to put to words. The number of times he's sat on a beach near the shipping yards just to watch the container ships crawl by as if in slow motion are many.
And he wanted to respond to that desire to raise a family: Armand still could, it would be perfectly possible and acceptable even now to adopt children. He'd be a good father, Ganymede has few doubts about that. But the response, and all his attention, is momentarily stolen by the fresco--something he hasn't seen in centuries. It's very clearly him, not someone who looks like him, but down to the way he wore his hair, the holes in his ears, the colors he favors. And if he looks mildly terrified by it, he hopes Armand could understand why; he's never seen an existing portrait of him, none existed to his knowledge save for a precious few that were destroyed in the war, or so he thought. He's never come face to face with that before.
"I...where did this come from?" he asks softly, barely above a whisper. He's already getting looks from a few people, two or three in the passing crowd that double-take at his similarity to the art on display. "I've never...there were never pictures of me. Not outside the city, and they were all destroyed." He knows this. He has always known this.
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They function on a different timeline, immortal as they are. Days are inconsequential, but the rhythm of the world, natural and immovable and implacable as it is can be soothing in ways that are hard to put to words. The number of times he's sat on a beach near the shipping yards just to watch the container ships crawl by as if in slow motion are many.
And he wanted to respond to that desire to raise a family: Armand still could, it would be perfectly possible and acceptable even now to adopt children. He'd be a good father, Ganymede has few doubts about that. But the response, and all his attention, is momentarily stolen by the fresco--something he hasn't seen in centuries. It's very clearly him, not someone who looks like him, but down to the way he wore his hair, the holes in his ears, the colors he favors. And if he looks mildly terrified by it, he hopes Armand could understand why; he's never seen an existing portrait of him, none existed to his knowledge save for a precious few that were destroyed in the war, or so he thought. He's never come face to face with that before.
"I...where did this come from?" he asks softly, barely above a whisper. He's already getting looks from a few people, two or three in the passing crowd that double-take at his similarity to the art on display. "I've never...there were never pictures of me. Not outside the city, and they were all destroyed." He knows this. He has always known this.