life's but a walking shadow

Indra has been learning and re-learning the contours of Terrastella, her iron hooves trailing prints along the cliffs and beaches, across the meadows, between the trees. She has not dared, yet, to venture up into the swamplands. She knows too well how much they will have changed, and the knowing bites deep, even as she steels herself against it.

So it is among the fields that the unicorn finds herself this evening, the twilit sky casting her silver sides with a violet glow and deepening the wine of her mane to an inky mulberry. Nightfall has always whispered to her in lonely, private way, and for the moment she is glad of the quiet that has cloaked the court of late. During the day the empty hallways of the keep echo eerily with her hoofsteps; the deserted streets feel like a depressing mockery of their usual bustle and noise. Come dusk, though, Indra is always grateful for the silence, and the peace, and the chance to collect her thoughts.

She is adjusting, slowly, to the world outside the riftlands. The Ilati of her childhood are gone, centuries gone, but a few of their descendants yet remain, and that is a comfort, even as she senses that her place is no longer among them. It is a different shared history that holds more sway for her now—the kinship of those who have walked her homelands, known her people, escaped the rift. There is something that binds them, that calls to all of them, even those she has never known except by passing recognition.

And there are those that she does know: the wild, painted mare of the ghost-plain; the time-walking young queen of Terrastella. Furious as she is with Florentine, Indra cannot deny the relief she felt to discover the flower girl had lived. She does not yet understand what has brought them all together, here, in Novus, but she can feel it, like pressure building on the distant horizon, and she is ready for the storm to break.

So lost is she in thought that Indra does not notice the stranger until the other mare has spoken. Hail Vespera, the pegasus greets her—a favorite salutation among these parts. Indra, never having been much of the religious sort, merely dips her horn in response. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she offers. “I’m Indra.” She takes in the stranger’s stern posture, the flicker of weariness in her eyes. “You look like you’ve had a long day.”

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life's but a walking shadow

In the gathering dusk, it is difficult to read the other mare’s expression (or perhaps she is simply in the habit of schooling her expression to neutrality), but her words are friendly enough as she volunteers her name in exchange for Indra’s own. “And you as well, Marisol,” the unicorn replies, trying the name on her tongue, liking the way it feels as it rolls from her mouth. It’s a warm name, somehow, even if its owner isn’t—and pretty, and strong, which its owner seems to be. Sturdy, but nimble. Melodic.

“These are stressful days, it seems,” she murmurs in agreement, a wry smile unfurling across her lips. Indra does not know this mare’s role in the scheme of things, but she would not be surprised to learn it was important; most people she’s met, of late, seem to hold positions of power here, with decisions to make and responsibilities to tend to. It’s an odd realization, when she herself has so little direction, so few ties to any place or any thing, and for a moment she is disconcerted by the thought.

But Marisol is speaking of the Summit, drawing her attention toward the distant silhouette of Veneror, just barely visible against the violet of the evening sky. Indra had missed most of the furor over the goose’s arrival, but she had heard in the days that followed about the message Tempus had sent, summoning the regime to a mountain meeting. “Because of the gods?” she asks. “Or the rival courts?” Indra knew which she would find more worrying. Gods, in her experience, seldom troubled themselves with mortal concerns (if they even existed at all). But men? Indra had seen her share of grief and destruction, and most of it had been dealt by others of her kind.

There is a flash of white in the gloom—the underside of a wing. It is no more than a glimpse, a shifting of weight, but Indra glances away quickly, almost startled, feeling as if she has seen something private, something not meant for her. “I was thinking of going,” she says, a little awkwardly, bringing herself back to the conversation at hand. “To the Summit, I mean. But surely they will keep each other safe.” It is only Florentine and her regime, really, that Indra is thinking of; she does not know enough yet of the rest of Terrastella’s community to consider them in the way that Marisol must. But she eyes the pegasus, noting again the vigilance with which she stands, even now. “Are you charged with keeping watch while the sovereign is away?”

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