 “Nothing that counts,” he answers primly, but perhaps he had it wrong - maybe he had scared his parents and his people, because he was not what he should have been. Although it was more likely fear wasn’t so much a part of it as robust disappointment. But there is no lingering on it; she’d caught his reaction to her piercing gaze and he’s back on the defensive, tossing his head in an attempt to be cooly imperious. He’d seen others do it plenty of times; he isn’t sure that he carried it off quite as well. “How should I know? I’ve only just met you,” he points out, sure that there is a large difference between liking somebody and being utterly caught off-guard by them and their flowers and daggers and talk as fast as a stooping hawk. Ah, then there is the lovers bit. It is dreadfully embarrassing to listen to this pretty stranger describe mating to him, misunderstanding his confusion. He’d had no idea why a creek should be mentioned in conjunction with lovers; his cheeks burn and burn and yet his green eyes meet hers defiantly until finally she finishes her definition and he snorts and looks away. The light was turning pink to gold on the water as the sun crept up; suddenly he finds himself wishing he were out there, among the fish. Sure, he may drown, but at least they wouldn’t make him feel so dreadfully uncomfortable. “I know what lovers are,” he says quickly, catching up to her again, needing her to know he wasn’t some dumb foal. He chooses not to feel guilty for the measure of scorn that edges his words. “And I know where children come from. I just didn’t know what this creek had to do with it.” How glad he is to leave that conversation behind, even when the alternative is verbal jousting about the superiority of field work as opposed to lab study (and being called Pretty Boy, which he takes with only an indignant quiver of nostrils, unsure whether it is meant as insult or compliment). And then there’s the dagger. He does regret the way her face falls when she processes his question, but the guilt fades quickly as she bravely pushes on. His eyes widen with each sentence, comically round at the point where she says I died. “Excuse me-” he tries to interject, brimming with questions, but on she goes, shedding petals and unlikely words, talking about time travel. Clearly she is mad; he wonders whether he should fear her or feel sorry for her, and settles - for the moment - with only being glad she is not in Dawn Court. When she lifts the dagger he steps back, but she has his full attention, and fighting all his other feelings and winning is the curiosity that had led him to Novus in the first place. Maybe, he thinks as she continues, he should be more open-minded? It would be wondrous, after all, if she was right - far, far better than her being mad. And so he is poised, holding his breath, leaning forward while still maintaining that safe distance between them, and his blood is humming with the hope of magic — nothing. He nods at her apology, still sucks in a breath the second time but this time his head is cocked, tail swishing at his hocks — still nothing. She is just a girl in the sand, surrounded by flowers like butterflies, holding a dagger to the air. The panic on her face is unmistakable, and the sorrow that follows, and the tears (Charlemagne has never seen a girl cry; he has only ever known of himself crying) and with each salty tear his fear shrinks down to nothing until he feels only pity, and the remnants of his first curiosity. “There, there,” he says, trying to sound soothing, though he makes no move to come nearer (making his reassurances effectively useless). “It’s, uh, a very lovely dagger. Quite ornate.” His people weren’t much good for comforting, either. What Charlemagne truly wants to know is more about this death of hers, but that seemed a terrible impertinent thing to ask about, given the moment. Instead, he finally edges forward, touching his soft, white-snipped nose to her shoulder. Her tears made him nervous, as his own often had, but he would have loved a friend then, too. “Do you, ah, want to go home? Is there someone we can go see?” It isn’t the first time he’s felt useless in a given situation, but it is the first time he’s felt so badly about it. In his culture, bouts of sadness or bad feeling were often combatted with a nice long spar, but perhaps she was correct in one thing - neither of them were made for war. |
image © unsplash
@
