[P] A drowsy sweetness

[Eik]

His mind unfolds as he walks. He thinks of the long road behind him, and the road of... well, questionable length before him. He thinks of Solterra, and the Davke, and Seraphina. And he thinks of other things, too.

(a part of you is snaking concrete and blue haze, endless horizons, metal beasts. a part of you was born not of woman but there, in that tainted world, and you want to forget because you don't understand it, but you cannot escape it. Even now, listen! Clattering keys and the rumble of the beasts on the other side of the glass and- music, always, always rising above it all with grace and clamor)

All he hears with his ears is the soft clop of his hooves on the sandstone floor, which has been ground to sand in the most trafficked places.

There is clarity in the chaos, in the thoughts that meander as much as his legs. It comes in glimpses here and there, short-lived and tantalizing. Eik stops walking suddenly with a frustrated sigh, and situational awareness comes back to him. He looks around at the slums of Solterra, the ugly Northeastern edge. It is the quietest part of the Day court, inhabited mostly by former slaves too afraid to seize their freedom. Like mice they cower in shadowy huts and half-ruined buildings during the day, and scurry around at night. Of course, the black market operates extensively in the area- the maze of ruins is ideal for those who need to appear and disappear quickly.

This place is the dirty scuff on the kingdom's boots, or such is the general consensus. But sometimes, when the wind blows the right way, you can smell the ocean from here, briny air rising above the decrepit shantytown. It is the one redeeming factor for this area of the court, and a strong one at that. Were it all torn down and rebuilt new and clean and fancy, Eik suspects the wealthy would claim this quarter for their own. He raises his nose and searches for the sea through the ash and stale shit- and instead, finds... flowers.

Flowers?

The scent is not the desert poppy, nor the night blooming jasmine the nobles so adored near their bedroom windows... Nor any other desert plant he knows, and in over a year here he has become well acquainted with the smells of the desert. It must be foreign, then. He follows his nose cautiously, stepping quietly through the sandy streets. Northward, northward, then a right turn-

There they lie, delicate even beneath the bone-dry sledgehammer of the summer sun. The blooms are somehow both carelessly and meticulously woven in her mane-- almost as though they aren't woven at all, but growing from her like flowers on a willow tree. How curious he thinks.

(For a moment he is transported to a wet fall afternoon- he can smell the rain as it hits the forest floor)

He tilts his head, curious instead of suspicious- which he should be now, after everything. Suspicious is how he wants to be but cannot bring himself, ,  cannot change himself to be even though history demands, or at least begs, it of him. He holds his self close and meet's the twilight queens gaze with his own steady, unwavering, expectant one.

"What are you doing here?"

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

-looks at to do list-
-spends all free time writing overly long starter post-
-sigh- oh well, can't wait to write these two together! <3
@Florentine