It was a balmy summer morning, so early that the sun had barely risen. The sky was milky and pale, an among the dry grasses of the prairie stood a lone figure painted in shadows and night. She was still, watching the shrinking indigo over the far horizon with the distant sound of the sea as it crashed against the shore. The girl had always been a night owl, a sentinel from her place in the sky. Old habits, it seemed, were hard to break as she had been up most of the night, thinking. Wondering.
Was there nothing she could do for these people, some of which she had become fond of after meeting them? Jezanna had never felt this listlessness, this helplessness, before. She had always been so sure of her place, her ability to provide and to aid. Here, she felt like she had none of that. So much time had passed and the young moon was still only sure of one thing: she did not know how she fit in. Even after speaking up, attempting to bring reason to the minds of all those involved in the meeting that had passed, nothing had changed. Did she have a voice?
Unbidden, a sigh escaped her. She half turned away from where the moon was setting, toward the mountains. There was no evidence left of the dragon breath that had set the pass afire and turned the surrounding area to nothing more than dust. If there was one thing she knew, however, it was that things... people, usually grew back stronger after tragedy. Perhaps the same would be said of those in this court who had been so afflicted as to cut off themselves and their people from the rest of the world.
She could only hope so, for themselves, for all their sakes.
The humidity came on like a fever, curling his mane dark against his neck, slicking his sides damp.
Asterion thought the first low growl of thunder was just another sound from the festival, but there was no denying the clouds that piled on the horizon, billowing toward heaven. They pressed against the ceiling of the sky, pale towers the color of a bruise beneath. There was no wind at the moment, only the feeling of waiting – a beast with bated breath.
By the time he caught a flicker of lightning and the thunder’s answering groan, horses were beginning to vacate the stretch of meadow. The bay stallion watched them go, watched the clouds swallow up the sun and the world tinge green.
The storm broke like a fever, too.
First the wind rose, sweeping flat the grasses and flowers, making the trees bend their boughs. The rain chased it, a silver sheet that swept like a wave across the prairie. Asterion did not try to outrun it; he only braced himself against the wind that buffeted him and waited.
It was no drizzle, when finally it came, but a downpour. Rain stripped the flowers from his hair and washed the paint from his skin. It soaked him near-black and coursed down his cheeks like tears, like a baptism. It was cool against his skin and surrounded him like the sea and Asterion shut his eyes tight and breathed, and breathed, and felt, for a moment, like he was home.
Raymond had begun his visit to the festival with a demonstration of his art; now he watched another as a pale-spotted mare with flowers in her hair danced across the stage, weaving a story of her own with her body. Thankfully no one was likely to compare the two, as her grace and beauty inspired appreciative sighs from onlookers while his likely inspired a whole new generation of strangers to avoid him in dark alleyways.
The red stallion joined in lauding the performance as it drew to a close. By the volume of cheers, she seemed well-liked (or at least well-known) among those in attendance, a fact that did not escape his notice.
A small crowd flocked about her as she left the stage and Raymond lingered patiently, each brief exchange of pleasantries bringing him nearer. When activity had died down enough for the spotted mare to make her way unmolested toward an array of refreshments he drifted seamlessly into her orbit.
"That was quite a performance," he said, the tone of his voice that of an appreciative art afficionado rather than a hungry suitor. Messalina may be lovely and capable of producing lovely choreography, but nothing about the red stallion's bearing suggested he was there to perform a seduction: 'predatory' was not among his list of character traits.
Raymond. and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
she is passion embodied, a flower of melodrama in eternal bloom
-- ☼ --
W
andering was in her blood, written upon her soul, and though she had found a home now the urge to explore every inch of it would likely never desist. She was still learning her way around, venturing into the forest and pausing at the river until she could remember how to navigate anywhere from her location, at least in the vaguest notion. She had gone back to the meadow, though. She always found herself returning to the vast field and grasslands, her heart drawn by the wide open space and endless sky overhead. Not a tree in sight and nothing but rolling hill slopes of flowers for miles, speckled like a mosaic against the land. It was freedom and she felt like she could burst every time it came back into view. The varying artwork of her new homelands brought her much joy, and for once in her life the need to move on and see something new had faded. She felt like she could be content here and the feeling was so new she hadn't fully figured out what to do with it yet.
Walking out across the tall grasses, flowers brushing against the sides of her legs in a soft tickling as the breeze swept them to and fro, Lisseut was at peace. Well, mostly. She wondered of the others in her new home, still yet unfamiliar with most of the Court. She usually had no trouble making friends, but for whatever reason a sense of shyness had overtaken her since her arrival. Perhaps, it was the knowing that she would be around on a more longterm basis, the impressions she made consequently holding more weight than that of a casual passerby whom would never be seen again, or at least not for a long while. Here, what others thought of her actually mattered. She needed to fit in, to find a place in the community and earn their trust and loyalty. All the flowers in the world couldn't make up for a lack of friends and meaning in life, she thought softly to herself. It was not an easy admission, but she knew it to be true.
'But, it is very lovely...' She thought, pausing and dipping her nose down to smell the fragrances. The sunshine warmed her back and she closed her eyes momentarily, pushing all the doubt aside in favor of relaxing. She belonged here. She felt it in her bones. She would find her way, and those to whom her soul could dance alongside. Opening her eyes with a newfound conviction, she took a deep breath and continued forward. She knew her legs were taking her towards the Dawn Court, out of the wilds and into the gathering of the community. She hoped she would meet others along the way, but didn't worry herself over it. Subconsciously, she began humming as she moved, a song lilting on the edge of her lips as if trying to slip out. She let the lyrics fly loose and her expression lightened, softened, "I know love, little one; love is like a flower." She looked at peace once again, felt the land thrumming through her blood and easing her along. Someday, she would be able to give that comfort and love back to the land...someday. "Oh, why is love a flower little one? Love is a flower for the sweetness it gives before it dies."
The morning air was the perfect temperature. Cool enough to be balm against the blistering heat that would soon appear as the sun rose and began to bake the earth, but warm enough to prevent the unexpected chill that makes you want to bury yourself under the covers. The wide river was soft in its passing this morning, surprisingly tranquil compared to the normal roar. On the sandy bank it trickled by, catching small granules and rocks as it went. Birds chirping, starting their day, was the only sound layered on top of the soft lapping of the river.
His lips were submerged as he slaked his thirst, but his eyes were up, watching his surroundings. It was boring, really. The river, the plains, the day. No one about, nothing to do. There weren't even any good trees around for him to scratch his antlers against. But his ears twitched to and fro, listening almost desperately for anything to relieve him of the dullness. The dullness that anyone else might have called a gorgeous summer morn.
A fledgling landed next to him, not two feet away. He lifted his head just slightly from the water's surface, water dripping slowly from his lips. It seemed to have been stunned, or perhaps something was stuck on its wing that was keeping it from flying. It chirped, helplessly grounded. It wasn't yet full grown, nor did it have all its feathers. A gentle smile crossed his face as it cocked its head and peered at him.
He shifted his weight, and crushed its small body beneath one hoof with a sickening crunch. Without lifting his hoof again, he went back to drinking.
The forest was abuzz with activity despite the late hour, nocturnal insects coming alive and flitting through the humid air. Fireflies danced through the trees and the bushes, darting in and around his legs with every measured step and about his ears as he moved through the green grasses. The gentle, bubbling babble of the Amare Creek could be heard over the din of nocturnal life, but Somnus couldn’t find it in himself to appreciate the beauty and splendor around him.
The festival had passed, and with its unfortunate passing, the stresses of Kingship and the Court returned tenfold to his shoulders, once more becoming that heavy mantle that so thoroughly encumbered him. While not a foolish man, Somnus still found his ineptitude crippling. It waged a war against his insufferable perfectionism, and right now, his mental stability was right in the middle of the battlefield. Was he doing enough? Would it ever be enough? Did he need to do more? Would the people then be satisfied? There was no greater servant than a King. He understood that now. Everything that he did, every decision, needed to be the best for his Court. The amount of pressure such thoughts inflicted were nearly maddening, and the dunalino found himself seeking solitude before his carefully constructed façade of professionalism began to dwindle.
He had departed the Dawn Court capitol hours before and followed the Rapax, driven by his desire for isolation to attempt to clear his head. Alba had not accompanied him, instead remaining at the Citadel. What she was doing, he couldn’t fathom, but he quite appreciated the natural silence around him without his bond-mate’s judgmental gaze.
A golden ghost he was, listless and wandering, Somnus wove through the trees and the brush, losing himself in the moment. It wasn’t until he arrived at the lazy creek that he paused, cocked a hoof, and lowered his head with a heavy sigh. Verdant eyes rolled upwards, taking in the sight of a star-filled sky, and his heart clenched painfully in his chest. So much loss, so much agony, all buried inside and never addressed… Yet there was no time. There was no time to mourn, to understand, to accept. He had duties now, obligations of the weight he had never before understood, and there still wasn’t time.
I’m sorry…
Letting his eyes slide shut, Somnus did his best to relax and not drown beneath the weight of stress and heartache, his golden posture wretched and forlorn as he stood at the side of the bubbling creek.
---
Hours before and back at the Citadel, an owl swooped through the evening skylight, its pace quick and desperate. The barn owl, for it could be no other, darted through the air with poise and elegance dampened only by her desperation to find a single figure of sunshine and ivory. ‘Where, where?’ The barn owl asked herself, wings pushing herself through the air with silent ease, ‘Where are you?’
Only one person would do on this night. Not Ulric, not Ipomoea, not Orion. Though their presences were loved and appreciated all the same, only one would truly be able to reach her beloved, yet sometimes remarkably idiotic, bond-mate, and Alba would not stop until she found her. Wise as all owls were, when Alba could not find her target in the courtyard of the Citadel, she instead turned towards the building itself. Higher and higher she flew, knowing the exact chamber in which she sought. This would not be the first time she had visited here. Arriving at the window, Alba’s sharp talons outstretched and she perched upon the stone sill.
Puffing out her chest, Alba gave a mighty shriek, hoping to snag the sunshine maiden’s attention. Impatiently, then, she pecked her beak against the glass, quick and in rapid succession. Only when her beckoning was answered did Alba ruffle her wings, clearly disgruntled, wishing that she could use words with Eulalie as she was able to do with Somnus. Still, her actions would certainly speak clearer than any word could.
‘Hurry, hurry! Follow me! If we hurry, we can catch up with him!’
It is lovely, here, the air heavy with the heady smell of blossoms and colored with drifting laughter, and Asterion should feel at peace.
But there are memories of other festivals nipping at his heels, and their teeth are sharp. In the music he recalls the last time he was in Delumine, when the world was hazy with scents of woodsmoke and cider, and Asterion stood with Reichenbach beside him, watching Aislinn flee. In the quiet chatter of passerby, flowers wound in their hair, he thinks only of the Winter’s End festival, of exploring with the gypsy girl at his side – how happy he had been, as Florentine’s heart and trust were rent and Lysander was beaten.
He had not wanted to come to this one, but Flora had coaxed him as his sister, and commanded him as his queen.
Now he stands at the edge of the festivities as afternoon slips to golden evening. He wears a ribbon of wildflowers, courtesy of Cyrene, but they do not look as at home as the blooms that Florentine wears. The glimpses he gets of Calliope, or Flora, or Raymond should do more to comfort him, but it is still worry that whispers against his spine along with the breeze.
It is a bittersweet comfort that there is no sign of Aislinn, or of any from Denocte. Each time he is caught by the scent of drifting smoke, he thinks only of the burning pass, and of hard words spoken softly against a lullaby sea. Asterion hopes they are happy, tucked behind their gate, separated by ashes of things that once grew.
By chance alone he catches sight of the grey woman, a void of color in a meadow bursting with it – save her eyes, brilliant in the evening light. She, too, is set a little apart (though he knows there are those watching her, surely as there are those watching his own queen). He only hesitates a moment before moving toward her, and he wonders, as he nears, what demons dog her here. The Day Court leader has far more reason for the guarded expression she wears than him.
He stops before he draws too near, more from respect than caution; there is little about him that could be considered a threat. He is only a drifter, a dreamer, a boy of stars and sea.
“You look the way I feel,” he says softly, but there is a hint of a smile in his voice and in his eyes, too, as they linger on her. Asterion dips his head toward the Day queen, respectful as a knight. “I am Asterion, of the Dusk Court, and I am glad to finally meet you, Seraphina.”
