nother day, another time, she had stood in this place along the river’s edged and wished for the impossible.  Shrouded in firefly light, Mephisto had believed for a moment in the magic of wanting something more – had allowed herself a moment of whimsy as the realisms of life fell away.  She had allowed the festival to sweep up the pragmatist and replace them with the girl, with stars in her eyes and dreams in her heart.  In that moment, she had been a vulnerable thing, raw and open to the possibility of fortune.  It was a night not unlike tonight, though now there are flames which lick the sky where the fireflies once danced.

The music is just as loud though, the spiced scents of delicate pastries and wines mingling with the chill of evening.  Children darted past with gleeful laughs, festival-goers mingling with drink in hand, making small talk as they went.  And Mephisto allowed her mind to still, taking the peace of the moment and letting the coils of responsibility settle at her feet.  She leaves them as she walks toward the bonfires, standing a few paces from the masses and watching the way the fire played with shadows and light upon their hides.

Her blue eyes are always watching, drawing in the scene around her until they settle curiously on a place where shadows merged and shifted.  It was a sight she’d seen before – one which the monk had explained as Caligo’s magic, that fateful night beside the firefly trail.  Curiosity edges at the spy as she leaves the fireside, making her way toward the darkness and watching as the shadows become forms, and the forms betray the man who yields them.  For a moment, she simply stares at him – for he has changed since the Fall season was upon them.

Now, the monk has lost his shine – his eyes bound tightly with cloth and his posture sunken with shame.  Though she cannot know his demons, there are whispers where he walks – snippets of rumor from the eyes of the forest.  She cannot make out their words, only their tones of pity and spectacle.  Never one to pass judgment without due process though, Mephisto pays little mind to their wagging tongues.  Instead, she simply clears her throat, stepping toward him until her lips brush carefully against his shoulder – not suggestively, but merely to tip him to her presence.

“Well…” she whispers to the male, “Your shadows are quiet this evening.”  Perhaps the only thing quiet around them, she thinks but doesn’t share.  “Tenebrae, have you come to celebrate the Spring?”  For he certainly didn’t seem in a mood for celebration, but Mephisto couldn’t know his motivation for coming to Delumine.  She does not mention his blindfold or appearance, simply waiting for him to speak, and waiting for the darkness to share what secrets he tried to hide behind his sightless eyes.

---