life's but a walking shadow
In the gathering dusk, it is difficult to read the other mare’s expression (or perhaps she is simply in the habit of schooling her expression to neutrality), but her words are friendly enough as she volunteers her name in exchange for Indra’s own. “And you as well, Marisol,” the unicorn replies, trying the name on her tongue, liking the way it feels as it rolls from her mouth. It’s a warm name, somehow, even if its owner isn’t—and pretty, and strong, which its owner seems to be. Sturdy, but nimble. Melodic.
“These are stressful days, it seems,” she murmurs in agreement, a wry smile unfurling across her lips. Indra does not know this mare’s role in the scheme of things, but she would not be surprised to learn it was important; most people she’s met, of late, seem to hold positions of power here, with decisions to make and responsibilities to tend to. It’s an odd realization, when she herself has so little direction, so few ties to any place or any thing, and for a moment she is disconcerted by the thought.
But Marisol is speaking of the Summit, drawing her attention toward the distant silhouette of Veneror, just barely visible against the violet of the evening sky. Indra had missed most of the furor over the goose’s arrival, but she had heard in the days that followed about the message Tempus had sent, summoning the regime to a mountain meeting. “Because of the gods?” she asks. “Or the rival courts?” Indra knew which she would find more worrying. Gods, in her experience, seldom troubled themselves with mortal concerns (if they even existed at all). But men? Indra had seen her share of grief and destruction, and most of it had been dealt by others of her kind.
There is a flash of white in the gloom—the underside of a wing. It is no more than a glimpse, a shifting of weight, but Indra glances away quickly, almost startled, feeling as if she has seen something private, something not meant for her. “I was thinking of going,” she says, a little awkwardly, bringing herself back to the conversation at hand. “To the Summit, I mean. But surely they will keep each other safe.” It is only Florentine and her regime, really, that Indra is thinking of; she does not know enough yet of the rest of Terrastella’s community to consider them in the way that Marisol must. But she eyes the pegasus, noting again the vigilance with which she stands, even now. “Are you charged with keeping watch while the sovereign is away?”
i n d r a
@
