[P] you flee my dream come the morning

[Jahin]

J A H I N - - - He moves quietly in the dark, naught but a mere whisper to suggest his passing. Beggars and thieves thrive at this hour, crawling, swarming the back allies of the black city—he is most comfortable among the rotten, the forgotten. After all, if he is not one of the forgotten, then what is he? He navigates the winding maze easily, familiarly—a friend to the shadows that linger and to the dank places where not even the Solterra sun hits. He remembers a time when he was once a noble creature, a stallion of sunlight, a warrior of the dunes and the desert. Now he slinks the musty alleys like a sewer rat. But if he was not here, wading among the sewer and the filth, he would be rotting in prison; a sad, pitiful death by any standard, not just the Davke standard. And so he continues with ease, with grace. His movements are fluid and elegant. There are guards at the sewer entrance, but he knows them well and they let him pass beyond the small gates without incident, a mere nod that does not quite meet the eye. Those who know, they see him as Davke. A savage. Unpredictable and wild. It works to his benefit and he does nothing to dissuade them from their beliefs. He winds through the sewers, navigating blindly. He is as practiced as any rat in the maze beneath the city. Firelight does not guide him through the dripping tunnels—only memory and instinct. He soon arrives at another gated entranceway, and these guards too, let him pass. One is a female guard and he feels her gaze linger a moment too long on his skin, his scars. His indigo eyes do not meet hers. He continues on, now in the belly of the castle. He takes the servant passageways, where they scuttle out of his path with dipped heads. He winds ever upward, staircase after staircase, until he is in their lonely tower. The tower where his new life began. The windows are glassless—he can see the stars, the moon, can feel the cold night air on his face. Two maidens are there, and they wash him down briefly, removing the stink of the sewers and back alley until he is gleaming for his audience with the queen.  He does not feel himself—will he ever again? But it does feel good to be clean, to be washed of the streets filth until he is only Jahin…scars and red skin and hair of fire. They braid his flame-touched hair, carefully, because they know he prefers it out of the way when things get…messy. And then they leave him, hurriedly they exit the tower.  And he waits, as he always does, for his queen.  these scars long have yearned for your tender caress to bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own ---

@Seraphina