life's but a walking shadow
All around the clearing, the twilight party plays on (a sweet, pretty thing, gentler by far than the wild revelry of the Dawn festival, but still made lovely with flowers, refreshments, quiet laughter), and yet Indra feels as if she cannot touch it, cannot be touched by it. Standing before Florentine, the unicorn’s focus narrows to the fixed point of her horn against creamy flesh, the centered gravity between them. It is as if the whole world is a snow globe, swirling around them with life and light, while only they two are still.
Welcome back, Flora says, and something in her tone makes Indra think that this is more than just one friend welcoming another—it is the voice of an individual speaking on behalf of something larger than herself. Indra’s brow furrows ever so slightly, and her lips part as if to ask a question, though she is not yet sure precisely what—
And then a scarlet line blooms along Florentine’s golden cheek, savage and bright.
Too many things rise up in Indra’s heart at the sight of that blood. Her veins flash with a dark, twisted triumph, to have wounded the other mare as she herself has been wounded. Shame follows just as swiftly, a sharp pang at her ribs.
And then there is relief—cool, curious relief—to find that Florentine can still bleed at all; to find that the flower girl is indeed real, and mortal, and standing before her here.
Indra did not miss the gesture that drew Flora’s cheek along her blade, and now she lifts her horn carefully away, her golden eyes following the path of the young pegasus’s glance. Her gaze lights on a pale brace of antlers, and a small, thoughtful smile teases at the corners of her mouth, as she recognizes the stallion who had escorted her north along the cliffs and into the heart of Terrastella.
She notices, too, the many pairs of eyes that watch them from across the clearing, some merely interested, others clearly more concerned. She turns back to Flora, regarding the razor-thin line they have so carelessly carved. For a heartbeat she almost regrets it. But she is glad (strangely, fiercely, viciously glad) for that fleeting moment of pressure, that solidity of proof.
“You are important here,” she observes casually, her head tilting as if to indicate the realm around them. Now that the numbing, furious cold is receding from her mind, she allows herself a moment to take stock of the woman before her: for Florentine is indeed a woman now, and Indra is surprised to find that they are of an age and nearly of a height.
An image prods at the recesses of her memory—another time, long ago, when they were similarly alike, younger and smaller and freer of care. “How long have you been here? What have you made of yourself?” And, almost as an afterthought, almost—but not quite—apologetically: “I don’t think that should scar.”
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