I should find fire beautiful. Momma does and so many others do too. I can tell by how they are laughing and smiling by the bonfires. Some are throwing things into the fire from pouches and it makes the flames change color. I should be fascinated by that, but I'm not. I'm terrified.
I remember the way the sparks came up out of nowhere on the island. I had been so scared already but then I did that. I made fire appear like Momma can. I've admired her for many things, but not her magic. That was the last thing I ever wanted to get from her, but I got it anyways.
So I still turn away from the flames and try to hold in my tears. I want to be strong like Momma, but not angry or destructive. Fire can get out of control so easily and I never want to conjure it again. Anything but that.
There are paints and jewelry setup in stations where the meadow meets the woods. Momma is in view, but she too is entranced by the flames. I know she doesn't want me going too far, so I stop here and figure I may as well paint. I've seen others painting themselves in elaborate colors and designs, so I can try it too. I use the reflection from a nearby puddle to start painting a flower on my cheek, but then I hear something in the woods. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see something with wings. I can feel my ear twitch. Everything in there is too dark so I can't figure out if I imagined it.
Although, I've never forgotten the pegasus boy I met in the markets or how he wanted to show me his places in the forest. Is this one of them? He must be so scared with all the noise from the festival.
"Leo? Is that you?" I whisper to the trees. That way if it is him, he won't get so much attention drawn to him. Part of me hopes I'm right and I can have a friend distract me from my thoughts.
some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
The boy watches the smoke drift over the trees, thick and dark and ominous. Its body of twisting tendrils carrying dying embers, bright as spots of crimson stars.
The crying laughter of children has filled the night, the sounds of a thousand footsteps trudging through the spring wood and out into the meadow has roused the boy from his early evening revelry. He watches, crouched atop a rock, his gleaming gold dimmed by his cautious demeanour. His is nearly a shadow, his dark gold burning like amber.
Leonidas’ ears twitch as more city dwellers tredge through his wilderness home. They laugh and they sing and children dance like members of a tribe, their faces painted. It is a haunting spectacle and yet an air of revelry crackles like electricity setting his nerves alight with excitement.
None notice the forest boy atop his rock. He has long ago learned how to fade into his woodland home. Atop his antlers new vines weave and spring flowers shine, pale as a blush in the moonlight. They are all tangled through the tines, strung like woodland garlands. The boy does not know how much he looks like his estranged father then, how the earth whispers upon his skin of a father that was once a god of the earth. Has Leonidas’ father returned to his divine seat, wherever he may be? His son’s skin smells of the budding shoots and herbs he slept on the night before. The boy is content here, alone, in the wilds of his heritage.
In his golden eyes is reflected the myriad hues of the bonfires that shine their light into the edge of the wood. They blaze through all the colours of the rainbow, through every colour Leonidas has seen in the wood. He knows such colours belong there and not in flames like this. What strange magic becomes these blazing fires?
He leaps from his rock like a stag, he lands nimble as the fae. He rises from his crouch like a princeling of his woodland home. But he runs like a king, like a monarch of the glen intent on finding out what strange firelight kisses her myriad hues along the edge of his wood.
Leonidas slows as his trees thin, as the meadow stretches out and his eyes are met with festival joy. Children run screaming, racing between the fires that burn and spit and spark their different colours. Adults talk and laugh and hug and kiss - he blushes and looks away and wonders why his stomach twists and he feels awkward. He thinks of Aspara. His blush deepens, there are fireflies in his belly.
Then, a voice, small and close and familiar. A small shadow steps close and firelight gleams over the white of her markings. She calls his name, her voice small and tremulous, like the bleat of a lamb. Leonidas slinks out of the wood, a stag, a fox. He draws near to Maeve and smiles as he presses his muzzle into her small neck.
And then the wild-wood boy realises what is different about her this night. “Phoenix,” he whispers, “where are your ribbons?” The boy says nothing as he watches her body curve away from the flames, her eyes looking anywhere but there.
It’s okay, Maeve. He longs to say. They scare me too. And still he remembers the running of the flames in the height of summer, how he ran from them through the wood. How the corner of the wood was lost to ash and charred wood.
And just like that, it is him, the wild Pegasus boy of the woods. I’m glad that I was right because if it had been anyone else, I’d probably feel really embarrassed.
He looks more like he belongs here with the vines and flowers that weave through the tines of his antlers. It suits him, I think, being a king of the woods and I can tell the forest welcomes him. When he walks over to me, he is smiling and I think that suits him too. He nuzzles my neck and I do the same back.
"This is your home, isn't it?" I ask, happy to see him happier than the first time we met.
I like his nickname for me, although maybe I’m a bit of a contradiction being so scared of fire. "It was just a costume," I tell him, although in a way I feel a little disappointed. Momma had done a good job at that outfit and part of me wanted to wear it more often.
The paint on my cheek has dried, but I’ve seen others painting each other with different colors and patterns. I pick up a brush and push the assortment of paints towards him. "Do you want to paint them back on me? Just… don’t make them look too firey. I’m kind of scared of it…" I feel silly admitting this to him, especially when this whole festival is about fire. I love Delumine too much to miss out on it though. There is also that lingering feeling that my embers will come back to life at any moment. That scares me too.
I can hear children laughing and running behind us. When I turn, I see some of them jumping over the flames and my heart catches in my throat. I know fire doesn’t burn Momma, but it can do some damage to others who aren’t so strong. I realize then, that this noise must be awful for the woodland boy.
"I’m sorry, I’m sure this festival is really loud for you." Maybe I don’t need to apologize, but I feel like I should. Especially if these woods are one of those places he wanted to take me. Instead, it’s being trampled on by all the celebrations and the smoke in the air.
some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
It is growing easier to be touched. Yet Leonidas still cannot help the way his heart leaps when her muzzle touches his neck in turn, when he leans from her a small way. It is instinct, it is a lack of touch for much of his life that keeps him flighty and nervous. Though the press of her muzzle to his neck is warm, welcome, and puts a smile to his lips, still the shape of his mouth is tentative, shy.
The wild-wood boy feels the tall oaks at his back, standing, watching when she asks if this is his home. His head tilts, curious. “I have no home,” The fae-boy says lightly. He means it too. The truth is imprinted upon his feet that roam and roam and roam in search of the place that feels like home. But none have ever been… right. The woods are the most comfortable but so too is spending time with those who draw him in like magnets: Nic, Apsara, Maeve and Maret. They all have become a comfortable place. Leonidas thinks of his uncle, how Asterion had whispered that they are family, had asked to stay by his nephew’s side. Leonidas agreed, but had seen him scarce times since.
A costume, he repeats back to her upon a whisper as he thinks of her ribbons, her fire. Leonidas knows now what a costume is, he has seen so many of them that night. But he looks to Maeve and the way the light gleams gold upon the white of her face, “Are you sure?” The boy’s nose wrinkles, a frown tipping up between his leonine eyes that trail across her young, delicate face. The boy did not think he had seen a girl more fitting of a phoenix than Maeve. Though, granted, he had never seen a phoenix before…
Then she asks him to paint her.
He stares at the brush and the paints, his ember eyes glowing as they flit to glance at those around them. They all seem to be creating beautiful pieces upon their subjects but Leonidas has never painted before. He looks up to Maeve and wonders how he might create such beautiful pieces - would his body know how? Could he control his telekinesis in such a way to draw sweeping curves like flames, like-
not too fiery, Maeve whispers and Leonidas holds her gaze, still and curious. “But you are a phoenix.” Leonidas says and wonders how a girl made of fire can ever be afraid of it. But maybe fear is healthy, he has run from fire before. Yet he has seen how the forest has recovered from amidst the ash of its fire-wound. Life grew back, more vibrant, more alive, healthier.
Tentatively he lifts the brush, presses it into the paint as he has seen others do and lifts it. The wild-wood boy begins at her brow and as it sweeps down the bridge of her nose and away across the space between her cheek and her lips, he wonders if the paint feels cold, or wet, or strange at all. He is slow, quiet, deliberate. Silence hangs, broken only by the loud laughter, the crackling fire. Leonidas ignores it all, focussing upon the path the paint makes across her skin and the contours of her delicate face. He nearly misses her apology as he begins to fall into the dance, the pattern of painting, the rhythm. Still quiet, still shy, he pauses as paint curls beneath her eye and along her jaw. “Yes,” He confesses, sounding so much like a boy and then deep as a man when he murmurs, “But it is easy to forget when I am concentrating.”
And he does concentrate, with a frown across his brow and the sweep of his ebony lashes heavy and full of shadow as his gold eyes look up, focussed upon the path of his brush across Maeve’s face.
I realize there is something wild about the way he smells too, like he's part of the trees and the earth beneath us. He's a feral creature crafted from it that walks among us like a horse, but he truly belongs in there, not out here with all the Courts. Although, I'm glad that he trusts me enough to be near me. I like spending time with him.
It's fitting too when he says he has no home. My heart sinks when he says that because everyone deserves a place to call home. I can't imagine not having that and a cozy place to sleep at night. I almost want to offer mine, but I know he wouldn't like it in the castle. There's even more noise in there sometimes than in the markets. I think back to just the day Elli and I were trying to save her lemur, it had been so chaotic. I guess maybe feral things don't need a home to be comfortable, they just like being free.
It might be why he doesn't see that I'm not a real phoenix. He's used to wild creatures running free like him, but I only did that for the festival. I'm no wild creature, I'm just… Maeve. I simply nod at him to prove that I'm sure.
He's not convinced even after I tell him not to paint flames on my skin. I laugh softly and just look at the way his antlers twist and turn up to the sky. I watch the way his wings rest at his sides and the way the fires bring out the ember color of his eyes.
I close my eyes as he paints, mostly so he doesn't get anything in my eyes by accident, but it's also a way of centering myself. Already the smell of smoke is bringing me back to my nightmares and I don't want to think about it. I only want to think about my friend and these peaceful moments together.
I don't want to be a phoenix.
I'm not sure what he's painting on me, but he seems to find a natural rhythm to it and so I let him continue. Thankfully, all the noise isn't scaring him off so I hope it doesn't for a while longer.
"Do you ever get lonely?" I ask him because I can't help myself. Even if freedom could be nice, feral beings must get sad from being alone sometimes. At least, I can't imagine it any other way. I don't do well alone anymore.
some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
Maeve closes her eyes and he thinks that it is easier to concentrate when she is not watching him. That nervous twist in his belly, a serpent twining itself into a tight coil, eases when her lashes press together and the girl no longer arrests him in the wide and dark pool of her gaze.
Leonidas marvels at the easiness with which he turns her eyelashes from black to deep, sea blue. He changes her before his eyes, turning the girl from a phoenix into a sea dragon with steel blue scales and golden eyes. The boy is no art talent, he has never picked up a brush before and so skill gives way to the joy of the medium. He paints life, he thinks. Changing her as readily as the leave turn to gold around him. Leonidas feels like a season acting upon the Maeve, as if she were a tree.
If he frowns with the thought, he does not know it. But continues, his work slow, learning the shape of her face, the curve of her cheeks and the dips of her small nose.
Do you ever get lonely? She asks him. His brush falls still, just for a moment, before it follows its slow, slow pass, brushing cool paint down the direction of her hair. For the second time Leonidas is glad her eyes are shut. He runs the paint over her eyes again, as if to make sure she does not open them when he whispers, “Yes.”
Wounded, vulnerable, like a lamb. That was how his reply sounded when it stumbled from his lips, barely more than a whisper. The wild-wood boy almost does not wish to hear it, but he also does too, as if he hopes that she might be able to change his fortunes. But she is only a child, what pressure is it to put his happiness upon her slim shoulders. At once he feels so much older than her and yet, not much older at all.
When the boy is done, he steps back and frowns ever deeper as he looks upon her. She looks nothing like Maeve, nothing like the phoenix in her blood. This girl who stands before him is adorned in long streaks of supple blue, like waves. The gold of her eyes is sunlight peeling through water. Darker paints draw shadows down her fine nose, turning her from horse into a draconic child.
“You don’t breathe fire now...” He says and it is a lament, though he thinks she might like to hear it. “Now you can swim in the sea and extinguish all the fire.” His voice is boyish in that moment, it does not break, as if it knows how they need to remain children, if only for a moment longer. “You are a sea dragon.” Leonidas names her as he gazes with wide gold eyes. He does not think for a moment if his art is good or bad, he simply knows that she is no longer Meave, no longer a thing born of fire, but a creature made to sink to the bottom of the sea.
I didn't realize how warm my body was until the paint meets my skin. It feels cooling, like a kiss from a snowflake or a bite from frosty air. Winter had its cruel and calm moments, but nothing about this feels uncomfortable as the season. There is a sense of calm washing over me with each brush stroke. Of course, there is still that temptation to open an eye just slightly to take a quick peak. I shouldn't though, I don't want to break his concentration. I'm sure he would want to keep it a surprise for the end.
Maybe I shouldn't be too surprised that he doesn't say much more than "yes" about being lonely. It could be a sensitive topic for him. After all, I don't know just why he's alone. He's never talked about a family and I've never asked. His family could've abandoned him and that's why he wanders the forest. It could be the only place that ever welcomed him. I feel sad now and hope maybe this isn't the kind of cruel life Leo has had to live. I want to offer him to live with us, but I know how he is with all the loudness of Denocte. Our forest isn't as dense or widespread as others in Novus, so I'm not sure if it would provide the same kind of comfort. I keep quiet either way because I don't know the best way to respond.
When he stops painting, I get worried that I still bothered him with the question, but then he speaks. His voice sounds different somehow as if he's trying to share confidence with me.
"You don't breathe fire now…"
This is what makes my eyes flutter open. He can tell how much my relationship with fire pains me and I almost feel like crying happy tears that he wanted to transform me into something else. I could tell he liked the phoenix nickname (it's one Tenebrae seems to like too, but I don't know if I ever will). But tonight, I can shed the name and be something else.
"You are a sea dragon."
I carefully walk over to a puddle nearby and look down. I am covered in shades of blue and in patterns like the ocean waves. I look like a child from the sea and its a stark contrast to my bright gold eyes and jewelry. I don't feel like it's me, but it could be. I could find a new identity for myself.
When I turn to him then, there are some tears welling up in my eyes. I can't help it, this really means a lot to me. "Thank you, Leo," I say and offer a smile as I walk back over to him. He feels like more than just a boy I met in the street, but like a friend. I just hope this time he doesn't get too scared and runs away.
Picking up the other paintbrush, I let it hover in the air between us. "Do you want me to paint you next?" I hope he says yes, but at the same time, I don't know if I can return the favor. Leo did such a good job with my designs, I don't know if I could do something similar. But then, it clicks in my head. I would see him like I see the woods in spring and fields of flowers. It makes sense, so I wait in anticipation, hoping he'll let me paint the forest on his skin.
