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He feels small and plain against the magnificence of this night, even when tiny dancers float past and his scars gleam silver and black like strange constellations. Tonight he is content with his perceived smallness, and his definite plainness, because when he closes his eyes and reaches out with his mind he has a universe of his own. It is made of waves of thought and feeling and the quiet magic that hides in every person's heart. In this sea of joy and sorrow and feeling, feeling more raw than he would have thought possible, if he was not granted the eyes to see it-- in this sea there is an island that is cold and dark and untouchable by his magic. His curiosity draws him towards it, as sure as if it were a lighthouse and not a void.
He does not know what exactly he is seeking until he sees it. There, between the bonfires, a tent that almost seems to be hunched forward, hugging itself. It suddenly opens and for some reason (love) he expects Isra to come gliding out, all wrapped in knowing, but instead it is Bexley's daughter. He looks past her to the seer, and past her to the dimly lit tent where all he can see is a deck of cards, a golden bowl, and well-worn cushions of red velvet.
His gaze shifts to meet Apolonia's dead-on. "O," he says, or it might just be a surprised noise. She's probably used to that. When the tent closes behind her a plume of incense fills the air between them-- he wonders idly what it is-- and when it passes it leaves a scent on his skin that will later fill his dreams with questions, as well as the barest suggestion of answers.
Apolonia seems at ease among the smoke and the crowds of beautiful people, just as much as she seems at ease with the dunes at her back and the warm desert wind in her hair. Eik was like that once, always at home as long as he had the skin on his back. He tilts his head, curious of the tent but not enough to go inside. Curious if it was as unsatisfying as he expected. "Did you find any answers?"
"A thousand dreams within me softly burn. From time to time
my heart is like some oak whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn."
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art by Pherigo
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Time makes fools of us all
