AMERICA'S FAVORITE, I DO MY BEST AND THEY HATE IT -
![[Image: apolonia_by_erasvita_dcmlqry_by_beccazw-dcnhnsj.png]](https://orig00.deviantart.net/4a1e/f/2018/265/e/7/apolonia_by_erasvita_dcmlqry_by_beccazw-dcnhnsj.png)
Is this what it means to be alive? Apolonia stands at the edges of the crowd in the ballroom and watches its components swirl against each other like waves, like the frantic wingbeats of birds. The soft song of a flute warbles through the warm air. Overhead a chandelier sheds split light all over the marble floor, so many pieces of silver and opal, and O is an easy gold thing against the cobblestone walls, watching and watching and watching with those triumvirate eyes. Is that what it means to be alive, to stand outside and look in?
For her it might be. This is not bothersome. She thinks dancing might not be her thing, anyway. Either way the beauty of the room is overwhelming, and watching the people is nice, and to stand in the half-light wearing her mask made of opal and to be, for a moment, normal, is enough for her.
But still she feels her hurlbat sharp at her side, and still she feels that third eye burning in a hole in the center of her forehead, and still she cannot shake the gnawing in the pit of her stomach that says you do not belong here.
It is deep midnight outside now, and she knows she cannot leave. The trek back to Solterra is too long to make in this cold, and not worth it, anyway, considering she reached Denocte only a few hours ago. With gritted teeth Apolonia resigns herself to staying a little longer, and with a practiced narrowing of her shoulders she goes slinking through the crowd toward the open door leading into the next room, unsure what it holds.
In her ear the flute still wails.
@caine
