life's but a walking shadow

The Dawn festival was like nothing that Indra had seen before. All around her, the trees were strung with garlands of flowers and flickering yellow lights, and music drifted from a dozen different sources, now soft and lulling, now bright and swift and heady. The air smelled of fresh grass, and honey, and summertime.

And all of the people looked so... happy.

The unicorn eased her way among the crowds, her silver shape melting effortlessly into the patchwork of moonlight and lamplight and shadows that pooled among the trees. It was hard not to tense each time a passing stranger brushed against her shoulder—hard to shed the wariness learned in a world made of sharp edges and survival, not starshine and song.

But all fairytales have their monsters, and all monsters have their teeth. Indra couldn’t shake the feeling that behind its pretty smile, this place was readying to bite.

She neared a clearing where a piper trilled a high, sweet tune, encircled by dancers painted with dark whorls of color, their manes streaming with ribbons and tinkling bells. Pausing beneath the outstretched arm of an oak, the unicorn watched them, lipping absently at the single white strip of silk that tied her own braid. It would be easy, almost too easy, to slip in among them, anonymous and wild; it would be easy to close her eyes, and lift her face to the night sky, and let the music make her into someone else.

Easy, and ridiculous. Indra shook herself briskly, her braid loosening into a scarlet spill across her shoulders, as cold practicality chased away any lingering scraps of whimsy. She was glad, in her way, that across time and across worlds there was still a place like this, a night like this, for people to celebrate and to be at peace. It just didn't belong to her.

When another shape came to pause beside her in the dark, she allowed herself to turn from the revelry and toward the stranger, her head tilting slightly with detached interest. "Enjoying the festivities?" she asked, her voice low, her golden eyes glinting in the moonlight.

i n d r a

Eik had watched from afar for most of the day while he grazed, observing the dynamics of the crowd and feeling the way the energy changed as the sun made its way across the sky. He was in no particular rush to join the chaos of the crowds- he mingled some with the other horses camped on the hillside but mostly kept to himself in pleasant silence. It was a good thing to enjoy the sweet tempered sun and the gentle breeze and the green grass- three things Solterra does not provide in summer.

As day turns to dusk turns to night, as the bonfires are lit and the smoke washes away the stars, he finally makes his way to the heart of the festival.

He has not seen this many people since the Winter's End Festival- but his memories of that event are rosy and blurred by intoxication. Here and now in total sobriety, everything seems loud and bright and sharp enough to bleed a man dry. Nobody else seems much bothered by it all- in fact they all seem completely carefree. He takes a moment to try to imagine himself feeling the way they seem to do, but instead finds a looming sense of isolation... So instead he tries to feel nothing at all as he picks his way very carefully through the thickening crowd, hoping to find a familiar face or a quiet corner to claim for his own.

Eik does not mean to stop where he does, but his attention was drawn by the sight of a long red braid flowing like blood under the silver light of the moon. It reminds him of something long forgotten, and as he rummages around his head for the discarded memory, she speaks.

'Enjoying the festivities?'

He is taken aback, both by the woman's interest (he is usually the one to disrupt people trying to go about their own business) and the question itself. He had not considered his own enjoyment. The night, not very dark at all thanks to lantern and firefly and moon, writhes with rhythm. There is some undeniable pleasure to be found in the beat of the drums, it is perhaps a primal reaction to the sound of something like so many heartbeats. But amidst the crowds and the noise and the smells, something withholds him from feeling enjoyment.

"It is a little overwhelming." Eik does not sound terribly upset, but there is a fidgety, anxious look in his dark eyes. A drink or four would settle him down. "But I've only recently arrived. And yourself?" He looks at her intently for a moment, searching for what depth lies behind her golden eyes, before absent-mindedly scanning the crowd in search of refreshment.

-     -     -
There is no better way to know us
E I K
than as two wolves, come separately to a wood

life's but a walking shadow

Indra is surprised by the hint of uneasiness to the stranger as he speaks—surprised, and a little endeared, to recognize a bit of herself in someone new, someone here. Accustomed as she is to being on her own, it’s still difficult not to feel restless and sullen, surrounded by so much gaiety and yet finding herself on the outside of it. She’d inquired after his evening a little wryly, asking out of general civility and expecting only stock pleasantries in return. It’s strangely gratifying, somehow, when his own answer betrays a lack of enthusiasm for the celebrations that’s rather in line with hers.

She hadn’t been miserable, precisely, but the company helps all the same; she can feel her mood lightening perceptibly beneath the stranger’s friendly, anxious gaze. “That it is,” she agrees, and adds, with a nod toward the dancers in the clearing before them, “I’m impressed they haven’t worn themselves out yet.” The moon had cut its slow, bright path across the night overhead as she had prowled the festival, and it hangs low in the western sky now, closer to dawn than to dusk. Whatever drugs or passions were keeping the dancers on their feet had to be powerful stimulants, but Indra could see the revelers beginning to droop, even in their fervor.

And yet Indra herself feels suddenly awake, her limbs all but quivering with readiness—for what, she would be hard-pressed to say. Distantly it seems to her as though the music, the thick wafts of incense, the flickering lights... all of it should be dulling her senses, drawing her into a stupor. But her mind feels sharp, alert, aware.

“Just here for the after-party, then?” she rejoins mildly, turning back toward the stallion. They are curiously similar, she observes, with their dappled silver coats, though the red slash of her mane cuts short any true likeness. “I’ve been here a while,” she goes on, in answer to his question. “Watching, mostly. I’m—new, around here.” It isn’t the whole truth, but it’s not a lie, either, and right now the truth is something even she can scarcely wrap her mind around, much less try to explain to a stranger.

His gaze drifts over the crowds, then, and Indra feels a stab of foolishness. Of course he isn’t here alone—of course he will have friends, or family, or fellow courtiers to return to. “I’m sorry—you’re looking for someone,” she says, and twists to fiddle briefly with the iron feather in her braid, to cover her chagrin. “Please, don’t keep them waiting on my account. I’m quite content playing spectator.” And she flashes him a smile, polite and perfectly detached.

i n d r a

Eik had not paid much attention to the dancers. To someone who had never danced, who never even understood how or why you would do such a thing, it seemed lewd to watch others. His gaze now follows Indra's gesture to the clearing where four slim-necked mares wrap around each other and sway with serpentine grace. They are the embodiment of music itself, and as he watches them a strange yearning rises in his weathered heart. "Indeed." They are even so impressive that for a foolish moment it seems to him that dancing can't be that hard.

"Just here for the afterparty, then?" She asks, and Eik just smiles a rueful smile in response. He's been thinking of storms all day and patching the holes left by a unicorn that wormed her way into his subconscious. Dusk passed and even well into the night he could not bring himself to descend into the noisy revelry. He is not sure what held him back, but it was not the anticipation of the afterparty. No, it was more like a sense of being out of place.

"I’m—new, around here"

Something about the way she says this reminds him of himself every time that one question is asked- Where are you from? What an effort it takes him to respond to such a simple question-- how is it possible to have so many words in response and yet always finding himself saying: "far away". So with this feeling in mind he withholds his many questions for now (he is insatiably curious about other lands) and asks the one that seems the most polite. "Welcome to Novus. How does it suit you?"

It is after she answers that his attention drifts in search of fire water. He is feeling jittery and too large for his body, and just wants to dull the razor sharp edges of his senses. (There are too many smells and sounds and strangers bumping into him, combined with the tap tap of the unicorn in his mind, and all his memories are unraveling and--)

"I’m sorry—you’re looking for someone," his wandering gaze snaps back to her, startled and confused. " Please, don’t keep them waiting on my account. I’m quite content playing spectator."

Most don't notice his wayward attention, or if they do they don't ever say anything about it. It takes Eik a moment to realize what an ass he's being. "Oh? Oh no, no, I just-" he isn't sure why he is so flustered, it must be some combination of the closeness of the crowd, the endless drumming, and the woman beside him. "I was looking for someplace to get a drink. Would you like to join me?" He gestures to an area of the festival where small golden lanterns appear to hover of their own accord, casting a warm light over rows of merchants peddling all manner of wares and services- from jewelry to flower crowns.

(he absently notes two unrelated things: there seem to be no weapons for sale, and a crown of white roses would be a stunning complement to his companion's red hair.)

He takes a few steps forward, sweating for a drink, and turns to look at her expectantly. "Come on, first one's on me. My name's Eik."  It is not in his nature to pester strangers, but like her he is feeling an unexpected upswing in energy-- and it is making him feel a bit cheeky.

-     -     -
There is no better way to know us
E I K
than as two wolves, come separately to a wood

life's but a walking shadow

The dancers in the clearing are turning faster, faster, and for a moment Indra cannot tear her eyes away from them. The music has changed, she realizes abruptly—the pipes’ cheerful melody has disappeared, perhaps so that the piper might catch his breath. In its place is a cantering drumbeat, rhythmic and wild, beneath which she can hear something low and dark and strumming.

The world seems almost to tilt, to flicker around her, and she is glad to fix her gaze again on the stallion at her side, reassuringly solid and still. “Well enough, so far,” she replies, and then, recognizing that this is not much for a conversation to go on, continues, “I visited once, long ago, when I was very young. Much has changed.” Her smile at that is a slippery thing, perhaps a little sad, perhaps a little cynical, though in the trembling moonlight it would be difficult to say.

He is flustered, then, at her attempt to offer him a tactful exit, and the smile on her mouth turns genuine, a short, startled laugh escaping up her throat. “A drink,” she repeats, brows lifting slightly as if in doubt. But he has no reason to lie to her, a stranger on a strange night, and she decides after a heartbeat’s hesitation that his offer is sincere. Besides—a drink suddenly sounds like exactly what she could use right now.

“Sure,” she says, more lightly, and follows as he leads the way toward the merchants’ stalls. She is strangely glad to leave the dancers behind, with their swift, searching music that pulls so unreasonably at her soul. “I’m Indra,” she says, in return for his own introduction. Almost as an afterthought to their earlier exchange, she adds, “I am staying in Terrastella. Where is it you make your home?”

The shops are a welcome diversion at this achingly late (or is it early?) hour, and Indra’s golden eyes flit with interest over the multitude of wares. There are instruments carved from polished wood; jagged hunks of white and gray and dusty pink crystal, all glinting in the lamplight; bunches and wreathes of flowers perfuming the night air. Indra breathes deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of gardenias, and roses, and freesia. This feels like summer to her, more than the music and incense and the thickly-crowded night.

“What’s your poison?” she asks Eik, as they make their way toward the tavern section of the marketplace. It is a broad, open area, framed on three sides by low hedges, and strings of lights glitter overhead, crowding out the stars. She studies the bar’s offerings herself, and inclines her head to tap her horn lightly against a bottle filled with a shimmering golden liquid, a galaxy inside a glass. “I’ll try this one, I think.”

i n d r a

She is tentative but yields to his request-- he inclines his head graciously as they make their way to the marketplace where a different sort of loud overwhelms them. The sounds of music are overtaken by boisterous haggling and laughter and drunken revelry. He notices, in a dark corner, a ring of dirt where two older Solterrans brawl to the pleasure of the loud crowd. His heart beats a little faster.

She reveals herself as Terrastellan- they are quickly becoming his favorite court, Solis forgive him. "Solterra." Is all he says in response. It is easy to mistake him as being born and raised Solterran by the scars that mark most every part of his body- but his voice carries the melodic rustle of a different language, an older one. It did not take him long to develop his grammar to suit Novus, but the slight inflection of his mother tongue remains.

He thinks suddenly of Calliope and the memories she stirred in him. Memories that leave him whiplashed and raw raw raw, nerves on end like channel surfing through white noise, like empty radio waves buzzing in every shade of black to white and back again. Indra stands in stark contrast to the humming frenzy of his private turmoil, a dream of grey and red, sharp and soft and mostly unknown. "I'll have whatever you're having," he says, not a man of esteemed taste. Everything is unfamiliar to him, anyway, and his thoughts are focused on Indra.

She is no salvation. She is just a woman at the end of one long day and the beginning of the next. But in his frazzled mind she becomes a beacon, a guide through the chaos and the noise. With this thought on his mind he orders two of the drink of her choice and downs the golden liquid as soon as it is set before him. It is earthy with chamomile and those yellow flowers he loves but never learned the name of, sweetened just right with a touch of honey, and most importantly hot with alcohol. "Good choice," Eik murmurs, although his eyes have a faraway look as he he searches for the words for what he really wants to say. He gestures for another round as the warmth grows in his belly, forgetting how just over a year ago he had never drank anything other than river or rain water.

The quickfire in his veins and the exhaustion of living swirl together in a dangerous combination. He's tired of small talk and pleasantries, he just (for once in his gods damned life) wants to know someone without all that gibberish and wasted time. Fuck laughter and music and dancing, he wants truth and beauty and never found them in anything but the grand open sky above him. But as soon as this thought strikes him he realizes it is incorrect-- He's found truth and beauty in people, too. Certain creatures who touch his soul in just the right way. In Novus there have only been four, but there must be more out there, more souls who call to him the way the ocean does.

He hopes Indra is one of them, he even dares to know it in that quiet place.

"Will you tell me a secret, Indra? Something nobody else knows?" The next drink is gone as soon as it arrives, and with his attention on the red-haired maiden it is not hard at all to ignore the appalled stare of the barmaid. He leans closer to his new companion so that they may share secrets even with the crowd around them thick as flies. Close enough that their breath mingles (clover, sage, chamomile) in the warm summer air.

-     -     -
There is no better way to know us
E I K
than as two wolves, come separately to a wood

life's but a walking shadow

The promised drink, when it arrives, is a mesmerizing thing, glistening gold in the fairy light, smelling of honey and lemongrass and fire. Indra does not miss the speed with which Eik throws his back, and she offers him a droll little smile. “Hit the spot?” She can almost see it coursing through him, in the way he shifts his weight, sharpens his glance—as if he’s somehow been both put at ease and wound more tightly up.

She sips her own drink more slowly, rolling the liquid in her mouth, liking its smoothness on her tongue, the way it scorches down her throat. Only seldom has she tasted alcohol, and that not in a long time; there were no drinks, or pretty festivals, or stone palaces in the world she walked before this one. There was only the yawning maw of the riftlands, devouring and cruel.

But right now she feels light, weightless, the liquor and starlight wrapping her mind in a golden cocoon, and the rift is the furthest thing from her thoughts. Beside her, Eik has called for another round of drinks, and when he turns to her again Indra sees something different in his gaze, something dark and intent.

He asks her for a secret.

Indra feels herself go still, the dizzy balloon in her chest deflating slightly as her golden eyes flick away from his. Surely all creatures carry secrets of their own, but hers feel unduly heavy, half-hidden even from herself. It has been a long, long while since she has spoken her heart to anyone—perhaps longer yet since she had such a one with whom to share. And how can she explain a secret that she herself has only just begun to unravel?

And yet she finds, somewhat to her own surprise, that she would like to. She drains the remainder of her drink, her horn glinting as she lifts her head. “I said that I had been here before,” she begins slowly. “That was—five hundred years ago.”

For a moment she falls silent, unsure how to continue, unsure how to defend the words that sound ludicrous even to her ears. “Perhaps you have met Florentine, the Dusk sovereign,” she tries again. “I don’t know if you have heard of her dagger—one with the power to cut through time, and between worlds.” Another pause, and then: “She and I were born into a place on the brink of destruction. When I was a foal and she but a yearling, our parents contrived to have her send me back, away, for my safety.” Indra swallows. “She sent me here, at the dawn of this world, though I do not think she knows it.”

She casts a furtive glance at Eik, as if to gauge his reaction, before looking quickly away again. “I lived among the Ilati for a time. Back then they were more numerous by far. I wandered for a time, on my own, among the wilds of Novus and other lands. And then I found myself pulled, somehow, back to my first home, in the midst of a great war that should have happened before I was born.” There were no words, there was no language, that could explain the way it had felt to walk that winter battlefield, her heart ringing at the familiarity even as her mind remembered nothing and no one.

“And now I am here again,” she says simply. “And no one I ever knew or loved survives.” Except for Flora, her mind whispers, and she crushes the thought, unready still to grapple with that truth. She had watched Flora die in the raid, had watched the winter herd mourn her. That the flower girl lived and flourished, here in another world, was something Florentine had still to answer for, and there would be a reckoning yet.

“And you, Eik of Solterra?” Indra asks finally, aware that she has been speaking too long, and too gravely, for any passing conversation with a stranger. And yet this does not seem the sort of chance encounter one might expect on a night such as this. She leans closer, drawing deeply from her second drink. “What secret will you trade for mine?”

i n d r a

He thinks of the way Moira Tonnerre had wanted to paint him. He could not understand why at the time, but it comes to him now as he eyes  that little droll smile of Indra's. Some memories just must take root in the realm of the visual, and they must be captured before they disappear. It is a shame that he's on track to forget most of this night. 

"Hit the spot?" 

He'd like to analyse the nuance of each word for an hour or so, but it'll have to wait for later. "Hmm." The response is hummed with uncharacteristic cheer- drink is a rare treat for him, something he's only had at these grand seasonal parties Novus seems to adore. Indra seems to enjoy the drink as well, which he finds an odd pleasure in. When he steps closer and asks for a drink, she appears to brace herself for a moment, searching for something. He finds himself holding his breath like a child at a circus as the aerialist begins to fly overhead.

As she weaves her tale, he does not interrupt. Not to say that he knows Florentine, or he is unfamiliar with the Ilati, or even to ask how she returned to Novus. He simply listens with dark eyes and a growing sense of injustice.

It is the last words of her story that bind Eik to his red-haired acquaintance: "And no one I ever knew or loved survives." His desire to take another step closer is barely constrained by the reminder that they are just strangers. Besides, they are already near enough to smell the golden drink on each other's tongue and feel the heat of each other's body filling the small space between them. Another drink, another step, and Eik might just burst into flame-- and that would be terribly impolite.

"I s'ppose you've nothing else to do but know and love anew." He murmurs dryly into his cup, full aware of how pointless it may seem. Really that's all life is- blindly running around in circles until you keel over and die. It makes him angry, thinking about all the misery in the world and all the ways it repeats itself. "But it's never the same, is it." The stallion knows there is no such thing as a clean slate, not once it's been washed with blood. "I'm sorry," he adds solemnly. He should have started with those last two words, but he doesn't always get things right.

Eik should have expected that his question would come back to him, as that is the general rule of conversation, but he never seems to learn. Taken aback by both the request and the way she leans in closer, he scrambles for a secret. For a moment he thinks he has none left, not after he told Calliope his story. But there are so many details he left out in that tale, so many small facets that he skimmed over to save himself the pain of memory. Even unspoken and unbidden the memories rise to the surface like dark stains that cannot be wiped clean.

He takes another generous gulp of the golden drink, enjoying the haze that creeps into his periphery so that only Indra is in fleeting focus. "I had a daughter." This is the secret that calls to him, the loss that hurts the sharpest. That is it- just four words. Eik looks away and summons another round with a gesture to the barmaid, searching desperately for a way to change the topic of conversation as an awkward silence settles over them, but not a single word comes to mind.

Everyone has their own story, and most of them are sad. Life loves a tragedy, or maybe just the living do.

-     -     -
There is no better way to know us
E I K
than as two wolves, come separately to a wood

life's but a walking shadow

Eik is a good listener, his quiet intensity drawing the story word by word from Indra’s lips, emboldening her to continue. He has a gift for attention, she decides absently, in the small corner of her mind that is still swimming in a golden haze, high above the jagged landscape of memory. Beneath his gaze, she feels that nothing she might say will be stupid, or ridiculous, or too impossible to believe.


As her tale draws to a close, she feels Eik drawing closer, too, though he has not taken so much as a step more in her direction. There is something simmering beneath his skin, bright and fierce and surging at the edges, and something rises up inside of Indra in response. She has the sudden impulse to touch him, to swallow up the tiny gap of night that quivers with their mingled breath.

But he speaks, and the simple compassion of his words helps to level her, to wind her back into herself. She inclines her horn ever so slightly in gratitude. And she is grateful, she realizes, glancing again at Eik. There is a raw, ugly wound inside her chest, and she has been ignoring it for so long, walling herself off from it—allowing it to fester. Hers is a difficult truth, and bitter, and a stinging thing to own. But perhaps this is the sting of healing.


And then Eik shares his truth, four quiet, spartan words that have Indra’s heart seizing in her throat. Her golden eyes fly to his, but he is looking away, now, his expression impossible to read and all the more painful for it. Had. No detail, no lengthy explanation, could cut as cleanly and deeply as that single word.


“I—” am so sorry, she wants to say, but even as she opens her mouth the words die on her lips, woefully inadequate. What can she hope to say that is not trite and shallow in the face of such a loss? Her own secret feels trivial by comparison—a strange life led, yes, but nothing next to the horrible wrongness of a father forced to mourn his child.

Already Eik is calling for more drinks, and Indra feels the silence radiating between them. She reaches out, pressing her muzzle gently to his shoulder, hoping to express what cannot be put into words.

In the lull of their conversation, music drifts back to her over the fields. She lifts her head, remembering the piper, and the dancers, and the wild spin of the festival. Dawn is pushing at the fringes of the horizon now, a delicate rosy gray, and Indra is surprised to find herself unready for the night to end.

“Let’s dance,” she says suddenly. She has never danced, but right now she doesn’t care. She gives a playful tug at Eik’s mane before turning away, willing him to follow her. It could be a mistake, to try for levity, but something in her wonders if perhaps this is what he needs: not a distraction, not to make light of things—but to go on living, and begin anew.

She winds her way through the crowds, resisting the urge to look back, to see if Eik is at her heels. The music courses swiftly alongside the golden liquor in her veins. By slow degrees the sky is growing lighter, but the stars still shine, and the horses still dance, and for a moment Indra wants nothing more than to dissolve herself among them.

i n d r a

"I..."

She speaks without words and he listens just as carefully as before. The silence is full of communication (later it will remind him of being with Seraphina, but that is not where his thoughts go now) and he finds himself staring at the reflections in the full glass before him. He can see the grey-white of his long nose, the red hair of his companion, the lanterns behind them... the whole world lives in miniature in that unassuming amber drink.

He had been gone in his thoughts for a long moment, and it is only the warmth of her touch that brings him back to the world. He blinks, and then gently leans into her in silent gratitude. It is the sort of night that should not end. The kind in fairy tales where time is suspended on a word, a thought, a touch to the shoulder. But there is no magic here, and life, in its grim tedium, is nothing at all like the stories.

And yet--

Secrets have been shared, and that is not without consequence. You can feel it in the air, hanging like smoke and swirling with a strange energy of its own. Two souls have edged closer together tonight and something like promise blooms at the edge of his vision-- or maybe not promise but possibility-- all the possibilities for the days to come, all the ways the universe might be made different, and better

Eik is no dancer. But she does not ask him if he wants to dance. She simply proposes they do, and with a playful tug on his mane she is gone. He hesitates for a moment, content to drown in his drinks and his memories. But she does not look back no matter how hard he stares at her retreating form.

With a resigned sigh he staggers forward to follow Indra into the gentle glow of the dawn. Into the music, and the dance, and wherever else the new day will take them. Where she goes, he follows-- at least for the rest of this quickly fading night. 

-     -     -
There is no better way to know us
E I K
than as two wolves, come separately to a wood