The first snow of the season had caught him unaware, again. It always seemed to do so. If he had known it was coming, he would have hurried to the library, for a prison of books is not a prison at all. Instead he had been sleeping, and he woke up to a world of white.
The worst of it had passed but it still was coming down lightly and he could not go out without getting snow in his wings. The snow itself was not the issue, of course, and neither was the cold. He just hated getting his wings wet, and snow-covered wings eventually turned to water-covered wings. It always happened, no matter how much he shook before coming in.
So he paces. Rhythmically, of course, so that the ring of his steps on the stone floor sound like a song waiting for words. But to his annoyance the words don't come.
Eventually he stops beside a large window and peers out across the field. It is still snowing, just like the last time he checked. The stallion huffs with impatience and the window fogs up defensively. A moment passes. Thinking happens.
After another moment, He blows the cold window until a foggy veil covers one corner. He plucks a loose feather from his wings and uses it to write on the glass, reversed so that from the fields someone would read:
H E L P !
He laughs to himself, more of a cackle really, and quickly rubs away the message just in case there was someone outside who could see the message and become alarmed. After all, there is a murderer on the loose, and a harmless prank in times like these could easily cause panic.
Yes, nonsense is a treasure! I love it from my heart;
A
night of courtly revelry had left Mesnyi slumbering into the late morning amongst furs and strangers. For some time, she had been unwilling to leave her bed (wherever it was), as she knew the stone walls of the fortress to catch only cold no matter how many fires were lit. Eventually, though, her bedmates began to stir, and, not one for post-celebratory conversation, the pale mare slipped away, hoping the hot oil on the air was being put to good use.
Not unlike a hound, Mesnyi followed the tantalizing scent through more than a few twisting corridors, finally coming upon the court kitchens. Many fluttering lashes and some sleepy poetry later, she was blessed with two cinnamon rolls and a fig. A proper brunch.
She went quietly through the fortress, her feathering grown long and catching underfoot more often than not, as she tried to find a comfortable spot to enjoy her meal. It had snowed quite heavily, it seemed, and she had little hope for getting anywhere warmer for the next several hours. It seemed others were of a like mind; Mesnyi would have continued walking had the pegasus not been writing on the window. She was not one for scolding, really, and simply peered past him to see: HELP! He let out a graceless cackle before scrubbing the letters away. Mesnyi’s mouth held its own against her amusement, but barely.
"You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while."
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Mateo turns at the musical sound, uncertain if he should be mortified that someone caught him in his stupid joke or glad that someone had noticed his witty prank.
He looks over the beautiful stranger who caught him in his childish act. The first thing he notices is that she seems cold. He thinks, briefly, that he could warm her up quite nicely-- if she wanted, of course. She was only slightly taller than him, which was just as appealing as the color and softness of her skin, and the delicate jewelry she donned, and the her subtle, floral scent, and... well all of her really. He is not even fully aware of the way he puffs his dark feathers with a quick shake of the wings. The action is as second nature as blinking.
"Trying to," he says finally, attempting to sound much cooler than he feels. (stay cool, buddy, cool as a cucumber, cool as that field covered in snow, so cool it burns to touch) His attention drifts to the cinnamon rolls in her grasp and his brows raise in surprise. He honestly imagined a woman like her to live off of nectar and water, like a hummingbird.
He can't think of any way to keep her attention, but he does not want her to go so he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind- "Do you want to play a game?" His voice rises a little in his desperate excitement, making him sound... not unlike a prepubescent boy. He clears his voice hastily (cool as a cucumber, cool as a cucumber) and looks at her with hopeful expectation.
While nonsense smiles and chatters, And says such charming things,
S
he is not particularly impressed by the pegasus; he is dark and winged with a rather nice tail and a good enough face, but plain in his adornment and as soon as he opens his mouth she concludes that he is not someone special. (Or perhaps relevant is the better word, though both sound cruel.) She offers a hint of a smile at his quip, but finding little reason to stay, she nearly utters a farewell before he practically squeaks, ”Do you want to play a game?”
Well, that caught her off guard, though he seemed about as prepared to ask her as she was to answer. She glanced down at her breakfast and said, ”Sure, if you’ll take one of these rolls off my hands.” Mesnyi did not care for what opinions may arise of a woman indulging in food, for the Benevolent loved their meals - always celebrating something - but it seemed rude to be the only one chewing the cud while an overeager boy vied for her attentions.
"You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while."
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The woman's obvious disinterest is a challenge he rises to, straightening his shoulders and fanning his tail feathers gracefully behind him. He was not the sort to be easily dissuaded, especially on a boring, snowy day. The only thing he had to lose was his dignity, which he had in abundance... right?
"Of course." Mateo gently grasps the roll with his telekinesis and draws it to his lips to take a small bite. It is good; not too sweet, the perfect amount of sticky. He was not particularly hungry, but that didn't ever matter. There was always room in his stomach, which he personally found baffling but convenient. He takes advantage of his chewing to think of what game to propose. Hide and go seek? Gods no, too childish. Anyway he'd like for them to do the opposite of hide from one another. A round of cards or dice? Too boring. Charades? Too many opportunities for embarrassment.
Finally, he finds the one he had been searching for. It was perhaps a little childish, but it gave him the opportunity to practice lying-- a skill he considered extremely useful, yet did not have the heart to exercise on a regular basis. "The game is two truths and a lie. We each say three things about ourselves, one which is not true. The goal is to guess what the other's lie is." His eyes linger closely on her expression, looking to see if she is unimpressed or disinterested.
"Might I have your name before we begin?" Another bite of the pastry disappears into the black hole of his stomach. He licks the icing from his lips, although the gesture is not nearly as sultry or graceful as he imagines, and he smiles sweetly at the beautiful stranger.
e accepted her gracious offer, and together they enjoyed breakfast. If she could praise anything, it was Delumine cooking. Mesnyi awaited his game with vague interest (or was it disinterest?), but perked up at his choice. She finished her cinnamon roll - gracefully as she could, no trace of crumbs or icing on her face or in her mane, before answering. ”That sounds delightful,” she said, and offered a faint smile before taking a bite of her fig. It was likely last of the season, and she was grateful for any remaining fresh fruit to be found in this weather. The red flesh shone bejeweled and wet, her lips slick with arboreal blood. She looked up at him with large, cool eyes and wintry lashes. ”I accept your proposal.”
Mesnyi tilted her head at his question. ”You should always offer yours first,” she winked, and said, ”My name is Jasmine. May I have your name, stranger?” He was a bit goofy, she thought, but not bad company. Now to see if he could tell a Benevolent's truth from their lie.
"You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while."
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Despite having reached the ripe old age of six, there were many things Mateo had not learned about the world.
One: People who are beautiful on the outside are not always beautiful on the inside.
He has a growing sense of Mesnyi’s disinterest in him. And he knows that surely the poor weather has pushed her to boredom and thus desperation. But she’s still the most beautiful thing he’s seen in days and it makes him feel a little holy just to stand next to her, a little holier to share breakfast.
Two: How to tell when someone was lying.
“A pleasure, miss Jasmine. I’m Mateo.” He dips into a bow that is overly formal, especially considering how he had just been smacking his lips on a pastry and writing childish things on the wall. Such formalities were so reflexive that they became to him, paradoxically, informal.
Three: How to think ahead.
He stretches his large black wings as though physically warming up for a performance. Internally, his mind is scrambling for two truths wild enough to be mistaken for a lie. Some might think the lie was the difficult part of the game, but it was really the truths that would distinguish winner from loser.
Lying was not a skill he would ever claim to be proud of, and not one he practiced much in day to day life, but it was a skill he possessed. All bards and storytellers need to know how to lie convincingly, and what was he if not a bard and storyteller? (Yes, we omitted the adjective "failed" that should have come before "bard"– but only because such digression would ruin the story. Think of the story!)
"Well," he clears his throat, "I’m a published author. My father is one of the benevolent. And," he grins, "I don’t believe your name is Jasmine."
He was very proud of his lie, and almost as proud of his truths.
- - -
@Mesnyi <3 (sorry for the wait, I forgot how to write him for a minute)
The clock too oft deceives, Says what it cannot prove;
S
he thought it was almost endearing, the way he bowed so deeply, as if she were a part of some royal procession. People - boys - were, however, less endearing when they were trying to hit on you. She might have liked him more had he not seemed so performative. His goofiness saved him a little.
”Lovely to meet you, Mateo.”
Mesnyi tilted her head as he stretched his wings. Wings were fascinating, and beautiful, she thought, so bird-like and yet so enormously fantastical. She would never have wings, but it was nice to dream.
A published author.
A son of the Benevolent.
And - oh? Calling her on a lie. Was it a bluff?
To doubt his published status was both insulting and demeaning; he seemed quite young to her and altogether too silly, but then, she had spent her whole life around creatives and hardly any of them looked as talented as they were. (Some did, certainly, but they were usually also arrogant and never as pretty as she.)
The Benevolent were not widely known and she therefore thought it was a truth. She would have some scornful words to deal him if it were false.
She could only think that either he’d been able to tell her lie already or that he had seen her about and knew her name. Better yet, if he’d run with the Benevolent he might even recognize her as one of his kind. She wasn’t sure. Now that the possibility of him being a Benevolent was on the table, Mesnyi didn’t really want to risk alienating one of her own, when they were both so very, very far from home. Benevolent weren't likely to be published, if they ran with their kind, but if he was only the child of one...well, he might bow to the permanent word.
It was just a game, anyway. There was no need to pile on so many layers to a simple answer. ”Hmm,” she began, ”I think you are a Benevolent and a published author. I do not think you doubt my name. Does it not fit me?” She bore the softest smirk a hummingbird-woman could, awaited his response, and offered hers:
”I am a Benevolent. I have been in love thirty-three times. And Jasmine is not my name,” She smiled in a self-satisfied sort of way, lids low, like she had a secret. She liked this game, so long as it stayed on the surface.
"You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while."
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She’s good, this one. He imagines he can see the thoughts marching through her head– no, dancing, each one a girl wearing a different colored silk dress, whirling through that pretty mind a spectacle of color and texture. And in the end, of course, she’s right.
“Well, no, my father is a Benevolent. Was. Not me.” This seems an important distinction to make. Surely a man with crippling stage fright, a man like Mateo, married to his shame, was an embarrassment to his kind. “Otherwise, you are correct. And Jasmine suits you swimmingly.” He grins widely, shuffles his feathers (not because he noticed her looking, at least not entirely), pretends he’s not just a little disappointed she guessed so well. Kicks himself, mentally, for using the word “swimmingly” which now sits (or, perhaps, sinks?) awkwardly in the chill air.
Then comes hers, although there is only one that really catches his attention and holds it, distracts him from the others. See, to a young man like himself, thirty three is a baffling number of times to be in love.
Then he wonders how loosely she defines “love.” There was storybook love, the kind that only happened once in one’s life, maybe twice… possibly thrice, if it was one of those redundant stories where everything happened in threes… but thirty-three times? It was not possible unless she was immortal or cursed, and Mateo was not positive he believed in such things. But there were other types of loves. Ones that came and went like the seasons. Temporary loves but no less sweet, one would argue– particularly if one had not experienced the type which inspired stories.
(In fact, hadn’t he been in love just the night before, with that delightful bottle of strawberry wine? A shame his love had been stolen away by his thirst. The traitor!)
But to count those loves, to hold on to each and every one of them until you arrived at such a grand and precise number as thirty three? Well, it gives a man hope of being number thirty four. If it’s true, of course. Which Mateo does not believe it is.
“You are a Benevolent.” He had never seen anyone with such a combination of beauty, grace, and inaccessibility. Mesnyi was like a song made flesh. If she was not a Benevolent, it was because she did not wish to be. (you could choose, couldn’t you? he didn’t know much about his father’s people) “Your name is Jasmine.” He is not entirely sure about this anymore. Having heard her say the name three times now, it had begun to take on a strange shape in his mind, like when you write a word down so many times it suddenly seems ridiculous that those letters should combine into such sounds. But he stuck with his gut instinct that it was true. He had yet to learn that, unlike many others, Mateo’s intuition was not something that could be trusted. And anyway, she had offered the name before they even started the game.
“And you have not been in love thirty three times.” He bites his lip, knowing the game means nothing but dearly hoping to win. The game has so consumed him, he has even forgotten to flirt.
I accept the fallibility of language, its spastic elasticity,
T
he more this went on the more she liked him. Where his nerves had softened the bravado of a flirtatious young man, now it made him seem harmless and sweet. He wasn’t so bad, really, even as he took great care to clarify the nature of his Benevolence or un-Benevolence. This was good, she thought; perhaps they could engage in further merriment and storytelling, something she had missed since her caravan departed. (Well…the merriment was present, but there was no party like a Benevolent party.) Mesnyi smiled and dipped her head, awaiting his judgements.
You are a Benevolent.
Your name is Jasmine.
And you have not been in love thirty three times.
He bites his lip, then, the apprehension apparent. Not so confident in your guesses, then? she thought, but there was little reason for him not to be. He had done well.
”I am a Benevolent, yes, and I have a feeling you are more Benevolent than you think you are.” She paused. ”My name is not Jasmine, it is Mesnyi. The lie predated the game but it was a lie nonetheless.” (Just a girl having her fun, you see.) ”And…you are correct. I have been in love but once.” Her smile then was soft and a little sad, not quite as shallow as all the others.
”I suppose we ought to get on with our day, but…if you would like to know more about our people, you may always seek me out. The others in my caravan have since departed but perhaps I would know something of his father. And - might I ask - what name is your work published under? I should like to read it.” She was certainly not the only one to use a false name now and then.
After his answer, she would then depart for some other nonsense to get up to. ”Farewell, Mateo. May we meet again soon.”
"You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while."
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![[Image: 26y3cfu.png]](https://i.imgur.com/26y3cfu.png)
