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.
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