Meandering the isles of the markets had always been a favorite past time of his, ever since he was a very young colt. He had such fond memories of sipping hot cocoa and eating peppermint sticks. He could even recall several wonderful conversations that he had in passing with several other members of Denocte. But tonight, he comes here alone and bored, unsure of exactly what he wants to do. He has no reason to be shopping and it’s far too warm for hot cocoa. And so, he wanders.
He pauses at one of the leather working stalls, sharing idle conversation with the owner about the weather. He asks how his mother is doing and truthfully, he isn’t sure what to say. She had been gone for so long and when she did come back, she was beaten and bruised. She looked like a shell of the woman who had left him so many months ago. But he doesn’t tell the shop keeper that, he’s not sure if it’s his place. So instead, he kindly answers that she is doing well and apologizes because he needs to get going…anything to save him from an uncomfortable conversation.
He continues onward, browsing at the different venders and sampling some of the homemade cheeses. Eventually he stops in front of one of the candle stalls – his favorite! He samples several items before finally deciding on a candied apple, a peppermint stick, and these little fizzy candies that pop on his tongue.
Finding him a quiet place to stand, he opened the bag of fizzy candy and dumps it on his tongue. The candy fizzes and pops, making the most interesting sound and sensation that causes a shiver. He can hear someone approaching, so he chuckles as he speaks. “Have you ever had these before?” He speaks as he is tunning, unsure if he has met the person or not. Kibou has never been a shy colt and the monkey who sits quietly on his back only shakes her head at his forwardness.
FINALLY! Something to do! It seemed like all he ever did these days was stand in the doorway, looking out across the lake. He would search for hours for his mother, hoping and praying that she would return to him safely. She had robbed him on a childhood, something he had wanted more than anything. Just to be young and free, it was a dream he was never allowed to have. But then she came home and everything seemed to change. Nothing was the same, nothing was as it seemed. And yet, he was still here, feeling so lonely.
The summer beach bash was the perfect place for him to try and fit in, to find something that made him feel young again, as if his measly two years of life classified him as old. He was up at dawn, picking seashells and playing volleyball like everyone else who had gathered here. But perhaps what he was looking forward to the most was the sandcastle building. As a much younger child, he had spent his mornings at the lakeside beach, building castles and shapes in the sand. He had loved it.
This particular hour, he had set down to the beach with his shovels and pales in hand. He nestled himself in the white sands, smoothing out the base for what would be a grand sand castle, he could feel it. Beside him was a small trough of water, already filled to the brim to use as a glue. Filling up his first bucket with sand, he added a little water to make it stick more firmly together before he dumped it in the center of his base.
At first, his castle didn’t seem like much and probably wouldn’t win first place, but it made him happy. And so, the happy colt continued to build his masterpiece, putting in one more bucket of sand at a time. He was still a long ways from being finished, but overall, he was happy with the way it was turning out. But like everything else in his life, he was just waiting for the structure to come crashing down around him.
Azrael walked along the mountain slopes, climbing upward to the place where he’d come from, long ago. Far from here, down along the beach, bonfires burn brightly into the night sky. From the mountains, he could still smell the burning wood and see the smoke trails and sparks which rose from their fires. He could still hear the music, muted but lively, and as he watched the event from the mountains, he could even make out the dotted appearance of equines on the beach, mingling and drinking as the festival carried on, late into the night.
A piece of him longs to be among them, with his touch along Elena’s neck, swaying to the music in a soulful and intimate dance. But his beloved had not found her way to the festival yet. Perhaps she had come to the mountains instead, where on another summer’s night, they had lain entwined with each other, staring at the heavens and letting the weight of the world fall away. For in Caligo’s peaks, Azrael found peace and comfort. In the quiet stillness of the night, he felt close to Caligo, as if he were meant to be in this place.
It hadn’t always been the case, for the shed-stars had called the mountains home long before the lands of Denocte. Long ago, the People had lived as close as mortals could, to Caligo’s stars. They had worshipped the heavens, oblivious to the plight of mere mortals, thinking themselves something more akin to gods or stars themselves than to creatures born of blood and bone. This would be their downfall though, for the shed-stars’ blood ran true red, not of light as they were told. On the day when fire came to their home, they had burned as mortals burn, too proud to heed the warnings which were foretold. It was a wonder that any had escaped.
It wasn’t the first time Azrael thought back to that night, with the flicker of fire in the distance bringing the memories to life. It wouldn’t be the last time either. But the memories were enough to drive him to the comfort of home once more, and as he drinks in the mountain air, Azrael finds his center once more. Upward he climbed, following a set of footprints not known, curious to know where they led. As he turns the final curve, he finds the source, pushing away the flicker of annoyance at the interruption in favor of the curiosity which ebbs toward the scholar.
His gaze falls onto Cicatrix, the beautiful soul with a star map painted across their body. Soundlessly, he makes his way forward, clearing his throat so as not to startle the stargazer with his approach. “I thought I might find you here.” He offers the stranger a bright smile, before standing beside them, turning his face toward the stars and letting the beauty of them steal his breath away.
come, come, come, come.
what is done cannot be undone.
Y
ou are hurt.
"I am always hurt," said Senna, mockingly.
And you are speaking like him again. The white gyrfalcon perched atop Senna's shoulder cracked open her cruel yellow beak in a cruel yellow caw. The nobleman's answering silence was met with a black-eyed apathy more feigned than felt.
Nestor could feel Senna's misery as if it were her own; yet what was it to her? She found him displeasing when he got like this. She did not know him when he was a feeling creature, because he was a thinking creature, utterly and fully — and falcons disliked hypocrisy.
Snapping her beak at his ear in a vicious display of hunger, Nestor leapt off of Senna's shoulder and winged up into the cotton-blue sky. Fix yourself before I come back. He was leaving a trail of bright blood after him in the harshest stretch of the Mors. No cacti stubbled these sands, nor rattlers or fat brown mice. Nothing but teryrs and wyrms and skulls filling in for tumbleweeds.
She would not be surprised if she returned to a pile of bones, licked clean by a desert-wandering cannibal.
Yet, what was it to her?
Shrieking wickedly, the falcon's white wings cut through a thick cumulus cloud, her parting words a singsong in Senna's head.
I should have ate him when I had the chance. A nightingale with a scarlet throat — how exotic!
* * *
What would Zofia say if she could see him now?
You have made a ruin of yourself. Her anger would be righteous; an echo of her brother's, his blood something she could never wash out. She saw Zolin in the sheen of her goldenrod eyes, in the swell of her Hajakhan brow; in the deepest river currents of her most secret desire for possessing and destroying beautiful things.
In repentance, she had lived in the most miserable way she knew how. She had been good, despite her unwavering belief in the evil of her birth — her greatest sin one committed whilst in the womb. She had been light, when all she had ever wanted to be was shadow. (By choosing him, she had sealed her fate. He was shadow enough to drown them both.) Sometimes, she would descend into a fit of silence so deep he feared she would never leave it, and wander trancelike through the castle for days. At night he would tell her stories from his rotten childhood; come morning he would wonder if she even knew him.
A Hajakhan's fatal flaw, Senna had discovered, was their obsession to break every beautiful thing they saw. For Zofia, it was herself. For her brother, it was everyone else.
You have made a ruin of yourself. Sometimes, he feared he could no longer recall the sound of her voice.
* * *
So you wish to die. Is that how it is? Little brother, you are more morose than I had ever thought you capable of.
A cool touch on his forehead, withdrawn quickly. The searing pain of carelessly poured iodine sizzling through pus-filled wounds.
As my parting gift I will bind your wounds for you, like I have done since you were a mewling kit.
A languid laugh. The smell of clean linen bandages, snapping in the wind. The sensation of losing more blood through creative bandaging. Water is forced down his throat; even in sleep, he laps it up like a dead man resurrecting.
Do not forget my kindness, Seneca. A silver scimitar slick with polish is slipped back into place at his hip. For you know I always come to collect. If you can spare the time, beware the Lion.
A meditative silence. It seems he is more determined than I had predicted. It makes one wonder, if Father had promised him the throne.
* * *
In the black and frigid hours of a desert dawn, Senna awakens to the keening wail of a teryr.
It is not a fully grown one; years of living amongst the desert-borne has taught him that matured teryrs spoke in a clicking language of tongues. And that matured teryrs rarely make the mistake of alerting their prey to their presence.
He draws himself to his hooves unsteadily, unsheathes the scimitar hanging at his bandaged hip. Solovey had come in the night; Senna's lip curls in a weak attempt at annoyance. He would recognize the nightingale's horrific bandaging in future lifetimes.
At least the blood has coagulated.
With the sun a copper rim at his back, Senna picks up what scant belongings he had procured at the Deluminian docks, sweeps on his traveling cloak, and takes into the sky. The Vitae Oasis is near, a half-day's flight south according to the star maps he had traced by moonlight the night before.
He flicks a crimson wing over his eyes, clearing away the sand. Nestor can find him at her leisure; he had little time to wait for her to fill her stomach with snakes and exotic nightingales. (And — his brow twitches — he is almost certain Solovey would let her swallow him, just to know how it felt.)
He arrives at the Oasis near nightfall, collapsing like a worshipper to kiss its silken surface.
am running. But really, I'm pretending I'm flying.
The full moon is above us, the light shining down and bathing everything in its ethereal light. I bask in it and it makes me feel more alive. Rory isn't normally up this late, but he flies nearly in line with me. His wings are my wings as we both soar forward. I can see many heads turning in the corner of my eye as we race the beach, kicking up sand and water as I go. I guess it might look strange for a girl and a hawk to be running together, but I don't care.
This is the first time in a while that I feel free. I don't really know how to explain it, but I just do. For once, the trauma of the island doesn't plague my thoughts and there are no embers sparking at my feet. I feel like who I was before all of this, who I feel I should be. The bonfires lining the beach seem to fly with me, although I still keep a safe distance. I don't feel that afraid though.
I am running and I close my eyes. I let the water spray my face and it cools my skin. I can hear Rory make a disgruntled sound as some of the water hits him too, but I just giggle at him.
I am running until something gets under my hoof and then I'm falling and sliding. I snap my eyes open just as something sharp slices through my heels with my awkward landing. Before anyone might notice my fall, I quickly get up, wincing from the pain in my legs.
Rory stops and hovers over me, looking at me with concern in his eyes. "I'm okay… I think," I mutter softly, feeling foolish. I can feel pain in my chest as the mark the island monster left stings a little too.
I notice the bonfires flickering differently now. I don't know how to explain it, but it's almost as if the flames are now pointing towards me, beckoning me closer. They appear softer and less menacing as usual too. I feel scared, but something tells me I should go forward anyway even if it's very slowly.
So I do and Rory watches from a nearby post. With each step, I expect to feel the heat of the fire wanting to singe my skin, but it doesn't. Instead, I start to feel the stinging in my chest ebb away. When I'm close enough to the fire that it should be hurting me, I look down and notice that mark on my chest is gone. I have to blink a few times to see that it's truly gone.
Without really understanding what's happening, I lift the leg I scraped up and watch as the scrapes disappear. The pain does too and I'm left with more questions than answers.
I'm thankful that it's Elena who's come to my side then, although now I guess I don't need any help after my fall. If it had been Momma, I'm not sure what I would've said.
"Elena… d-do you know what's happening to me?" I ask her, even if she doesn't have a clue.
§
she listens to wind secrets
and echoes of distant star songs
One summer at our family’s beach, Bennett and Imogen convinced me to swim out with them, further than we had before. Lawrence was too busy to go with us, and Agatha too sickly. For many summers it was the three of us, always together. My siblings jumped in and I followed. We got further and further out until our teeth were chattering.The water was colder there than it was closer to the beach, our breath was ragged in our lungs with shivers. We all started laughing, panicky breathes. What were we thinking? There were kelpies out this far! Oh Vespera, don’t mention kelpies! We pushed and scrambled as we tried to swim back. ‘If I get killed by a kelpie, tell them I went down swinging!’ Bennett shouted, I could hear how tired he was in his voice. ‘Sure you don't want a love story? A kelpie came and swept you off your feet?’ Imogen said with a laugh. We came onto shore, shivering uncontrollably, dangerously but still we were laughing. My mother found us, quietly scolded us about our inappropriate behavior before bringing us inside our summer home.
It seemed hysterically funny to be so cold and so tired. We huddled under blankets our parents kept putting over us to warm up. ‘Falling in love with a kelpie! What a joke!’ My brother had laughed.
I stayed on the main shore with Lawrence while the rest of my family went to the summer house for the season. I had some more work to do with my cartography and was preparing for an archery competition. Still, it did not mean I could not enjoy the ocean views. I take my bow down the water today, string an arrow, aim, let it go. It lands dead center in the trunk of a tree.“Perfect shot,” I say. I normally not so arrogant, but believing to be by myself—
She does not feel happiness anymore. The fire within her soul is no longer burning bright, barely even smoldering coals. She just doesn’t feel alive like she once had. After spending so much time away from her home, her welcoming here had not been pleasant, only filled with anger and questions. She felt alienated and so very much alone. Even her son was nowhere to be found. The young colt was growing each and every day, branching out and away from her. He was growing into a fine young man and Katniss could no longer coddle him. He didn’t need her and it seemed as though Denocte didn’t need her either.
Katniss could feel herself falling into a deep depression, as if the lights were slowly fading all around her, leaving her in complete darkness. Even candy apples and hot tea could not make the draft mare smile. Even her own son could not seem to ignite the fire that once flickered within her. The was perhaps the most depressed she had ever felt, coming in a close second was when her other half left this world.
The day had been filled with seashell hunting and volleyball and laughter and games. Katniss tried to participate, but she fell more into the sidelines, watching rather than participating. But as the sun began to set, Katniss settled in the sand to watch the bonfire. It was supposed to be soothing, but it was the picture of nightmares. It reminded her of the pyre Metaphor’s body burned on, the way the flames seemed to reach for heaven. It made her shudder. But she tried to ignore it, to listen to some of the stories being told. It did not take long for the sound of the crackling fire and the steady lap of the lake against the sand to put the mare into a steady sleep.
Sleep was restless, but as the dreamland seemed to call her, Katniss gave into its steady pull. Even the loud music of the party could not wake her. Perhaps it was for the best.
At first the dream was nothing but a blurry landscape, slowly forming into a place she knew so well. Amare Creek began to come into view. The closer her steps took her, the more formed the vision seemed to make. And then up ahead, there was a figure wanting for her. Her name was called out on the wings of the wind, beckoning her to come forward. But she hesitated. She knew the figure that stood before her and she fought the feelings that had so long been pushed away. He was standing there, watching her, calling her to come to him. Metaphor. Her sweet and perfect Metaphor. Why was this dream being so cruel to her? For years she fought to repress his memories, unable to handle the pain that came with them. And yet, the sandman seemed to taunt her, showing her a figure that could not be real. “You are not alive…you can’t be.” She tossed her head, shaking it almost violently from side to side. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be. He had to be a figment of her dream, something that surely she could will away. And yet, he beckoned her closer, his voice growing louder and louder with each breath he took. She resisted, trying so hard not to lose herself in the moment. Unfortunately, she was losing this battle. Her heart yearned for her lover and it overrode her mind’s ability to turn away. So closer she stepped towards this figment of her dream. Closer she stepped, unsure of where her dream might be leading her.
Atlas finds the Denocte beach celebration quaint. The colors are mostly muted save for the sharp cut of black and gold; the beige sand sets a benign backdrop for the steel-colored water and the opalescent sky, where the sun is a pale, almost melonlike color, the rays cutting down through a soft covering of platinum clouds. Powdery waves bubble up on the shore pushing pieces of greyed-out driftwood and, if lucky, unearthing a gorgeous shell, supposedly a relic from where holy Caligo strode across these very beaches in time immemorial. Atlas likes the feeling of the delicate, tepid early afternoon water against his golden hocks, his footsteps sinking slightly in the wet sand before being wiped away again as though he was never there.
Mellow though it was, the differences between the Beach Bash on Novus and the festivals he was used to experiencing in his homeland were stark and harsh. Zukai celebrations were full of spice and color, blood-red and coin-gold, the heavy scents of spiced food, coal-smoke, and more illicit activities all stuck beneath a blazing sun and a layer of intense, inescapable heat which made eyes sting with sweat, and every step feel more like swimming than Atlas was now, though he was knee-deep in the surf. Also missing from this particular event was the omnipresent reek of blood from the gladiatorial games being held from dawn 'til dusk at the city center. All the Sand Czars, important princes, and even some chosen wives would be in attendance. Everyone else would pack the city streets, for good or ill, slave and socialite alike.
Atlas far preferred the Denoctian festivities. They seemed to happen at a much slower pace-- very much his style-- but were still bright and cheerful. Parts of the beach were crowded as partiers prepared bonfire circles or bellied up to the bar; the Night Market was equally as populated by sellers and shoppers, hawkers and hagglers, and even the occasional pickpocket or thief.
But Caligo's land was large and for all her faithful there was no way they could swarm all the realm. Some stretches of sand, away from bonfires, sandcastles, and volleyball courts, were trodden by hunters of the rare: in age ranges from the spindly-legged young to bowed-back elders, eyes of all colors were on the lookout for the gilded appearance of the shells of Caligo's footsteps. This was what Atlas had decided to look for, though his pace was not quick. More often than not he spied a treasure that was snapped up by an excited child before he could make his way to it. The losses did not bother him, for he far more enjoyed the stroll on the beach to any sort of competition or race.
Atlas was lonely by nature, but he was no loner, for sure. The chance to be in proximity to others, trading greetings, and experiencing the flow of celebratory life uplifted his spirit, even if he was a singular visitor to a party populated by groups and families. Aside from brief salutations, he was too shy and awkward to truly introduce himself to anyone-- but the day was beautiful and the smiles were many, and so it was not too painful to simply trek on by himself.
Her death hit in waves. Not a flood, but water lapping steadily at her ankles. You could drown in two inches of water. Maybe grief was the same.
Returning to Solterra offers the chance for adventure she has been waiting for. She wants to see the dunes again, picture them, hold them in place until she can put paint to canvas and capture it there. She is so like her mother at this age, so soft and bright, so curious.
She has seen her mother’s brokenness, of course, but she cannot fathom that she had ever been anyone but who she is now, strong, if not quieter than what she had been, not quite as bright as the afternoon sun, but more the soft glow of her mother in the early mornings. Her mother was steadfast, compassionate, and courageous. But Elli does not know the woman who was so reckless with her heart and her soul. The woman who was much quicker to smile and make friends than she is now.
But Elena still shares stories, of times before, when she didn't have her heart locked down so firmly in her chest,
One of her favorite stories is when her mother and godmother met the man of Frost in a spring meadow. They stared down winter with all the warmth and fire of summer. They were just fillies then, little girls who before this had been admiring flowers (sure one was an orphan and one was unknown to a father.) But there were still childhood pieces tucked inside them (‘for safekeeping,’ she imagines her mother saying, just as she does when she stick flower petals under their pillows for wishes later). And the winds blew in her mother’s godfather and the silver regent who melted the ice with but two singular glances. Maybe her mother was not the hero of the story, but Elli still admires her for it.
What would she do if she ran into winter on a spring day?
She would pull a hood up over her head and brace herself for the blizzard.
She cannot think about frost though as she stands by the dunes, squinting in the sun. Her mother will be wondering where she is, but she will be unsurprised, asking Elli’s wandering feet to still is as much of a task as trying to keep the world from spinning. Her hooves sink into the sand and she feels the heat grow around them as blue eyes blink against the warmth of the desert. Elli is picturing the paints she would mix together to create this shade. Her breathing is steady, but when she looks out at the horizon she feels it shimmering, she feels the headiness of the heat, and she thinks what colors would this feeling be?
The night was young, and the drinks flowed freely. Azrael cannot help by be struck by the similarities to another party, another summer night, which seemed a lifetime ago now. On that night, the bonfires has burned brightly and the stars had shone even brighter. It was a night filled with hope and longing, a night which would begin a fateful path that not even his stargazing could have predicted. For how could he have known that the girl with eyes as blue as the sea, wide and bright in the moonlight as they watched him with absolute trust and comfort, would have danced with another that night. Wantonly. Lustfully. And as much as Azrael had forgiven the past, he cannot help but feel the pang of jealousy once more as he wondered how their fates might have been different, if he had found her first and asked her to dance beneath the pale moonlight.
He nurses a drink, the alcohol strong but not unpleasant as it cooled his thirst, and he watched pensively as the bonfires licked at the midnight sky. As strangers passed, Azrael nodded in greeting, murmuring small talk as was expected of him, though his heart wasn’t really in it. He sighs, absentmindedly stroking the owl who rested on his shoulder, leaning closer so she could pick at his mane with a quiet and comforting coo. It didn’t do to dwell of might-have-beens, he knew, and yet Azrael cannot help but be struck by the similarities.
Swallowing his pride, he tries to shake away the memories and focus on the party, a warm buzz fading over him as he closed his eyes and swayed with the music. Strangers press closer to him, and he is assaulted by their warmth, but does not move away. Instead he lets the pass by, dancing casually with a few before finding himself once more on the outskirts of their movement, looking in.
He does not stay alone for long though, turning toward approaching footsteps and smiling gratefully as he recognizes their bearer. Morrighan walked more easily now, and his gaze flickers quickly to her leg, then back again. “It seems to be healing well…” He shifts over to allow her room beside him, and the two quietly watch their kingdom for a moment. Not for the first time, Azrael is struck by the beauty of it, with the towering citadel just visible from the shore, haloed in the light of a full silver moon.
"I met your daughter earlier, Maeve, right?” Though Morrighan hadn’t shared the girl’s name, he’d heard it whispered several times since returning from the island. “She takes after you.” Both in looks and adventurous spirit, it seemed. “I’m glad to see you were able to bring her home safely.”
Much had changed since he’d last found time alone with the now-sovereign, but the Court had seemed to ride the change well. In fact, Denocte seemed livelier now than he’d seen it in some time, and he had no doubt the change in regime was good for them. “How are you finding your first weeks as queen?”
