Darkness falls over the uplands like a blanket, milky-gray skies fading into rosy sunsets before sinking into deep midnight-blue. The stars reveal themselves gradually and he's there for it all, gazing dutifully heavenward from where he sits in a soft patch of grass. Fierce winds and dreary rains have since died with the setting sun and thus the fields have grown into a cool stillness, air crisp and scattered with the quiet chirps of grasshoppers. It all reminds him of another time, a distant memory made faint by the fuzziness of years come and gone. Icarus's travels have been varied, taking him from crowded forests to barren deserts to humid jungles and back again, but it's been a long time since he's belonged to the moors — not since he was a mere child of the wilds. Funny that he'd end up in such a similar place as the one he'd started in so many moons ago. In the quietness of the night he can almost imagine he's a kit again, his only company those ever-winkling lights, always seeming so close and always just out of his reach.

But the stars look different from here, even if they're the same. He does not pretend that these are the same skies — he knows that they aren't — and yet he greets the stars like an old friend, tracing imaginary lines between them with familiarity. Here the shield of Perseus, there the wings of Pegasus, the very same as always. He knows them like the tabby stripes of his own pelt — maybe even better. The sky darkens further and he settles in for a long night beneath it. The golden tom might lose a few whiskers of sleep but he hardly minds when it's for a view this good, one where the earth is vast and open and seems to roll on forever until the stars melt into the horizon itself. The evening breeze drifts gently by and for a moment he swears that it's whispering to him the secrets of the stars as they slowly unravel before his eyes. So he listens, ever-obedient to the whims of the universe and his own tender heart, with twin verdant pools fixed above and glittering with the reflection of the heavens.

Icarus hears the approach of pawsteps in the soft shuddering of the heath under another's weight, shifting and settling with a sigh as the other seats himself. The tom does not turn at first — he, too, lets the comfortable silence draw out, eyes fixed to the sky above. He hadn't anticipated having company, but he welcomes it just the same, allowing the other to speak first. Little thought is spared to exactly who it is that's joined him (there are only so many options, after all) until the lion speaks. Emerald-green eyes glitter just a bit brighter with recognition, ear flicking in a wordless greeting; so the winged newcomer from lands beyond the moors is up late, too? In spite of his general nosiness, Icarus knows better than to pry at what's kept Aurum out at such an hour. Everyone has their reasons for lack of sleep, their own burdens to bear — few can say to be sleepless of their own accord as he is, so he'll savor his time with the stars.

He gives a hum in quiet agreement with Aurum's words. Even without saying it explicitly, Icarus knows what he refers to — what else does he gaze at so admiringly as the stars? There is something about seeing them here, with nothing but the open plains flanking him to remind him of how very distant they truly are. To many the heavens are a reminder of their smallness on this earth, but to the golden feline it's a reminder of how grand and unlikely their circumstances are, that this light would travel for hundreds of thousands of years in the cold expanse of space just to shine upon them. Maybe if he weren't so blissfully ignorant to recent events just at the outer reaches of their territory he'd think how fragile their existence here is — but he is blissfully ignorant, and such thoughts never cross the optimistic tabby's mind. Icarus almost wants to ask Aurum what he thinks, wants to come up with something poetic and glorious to say, but in the face of all the great majesty that is seeing the universe unravel before his eyes all he is left with is a simple, breathless, "Yeah. It's amazing."

The tom shifts where he sits, finally turning to cast a glance at the fellow Knight, face only lit by the gentle glow of starlight. His own eyes seem to sparkle beneath the moon's rays, and still in the shadows that fall across his face there is an inscrutable nature to the deep contemplation written over his features. "You know any constellations?" he asks mildly. Icarus knows his well enough; the major ones, a few notable stars, some miscellaneous facts to accompany them. He's picked up a fair amount from his books, but the man is a nothing if not a poet at heart — he's less interested in the science than the stories behind them that bind each star by an invisible thread, pulling together seemingly-meaningless dots into sprawling works of art painted across the evening sky, like a map leading to a destination unknown. In the end, Icarus doesn't wait for a reply. "Virgo's especially clear tonight. She's lovely." A white-dappled paw follows his musings, pointing into the distance where another collection of scattered stars lie, tracing the lines like those on his fur. It's familiar in a way little else in his life has been, comforting and warm like the embrace of someone he once knew well. Icarus falls now into a lull of silence, allowing the subtle sounds of the night air wash over them as he concentrates ever-curiously above.