When the maze is finished with her, Shrike wanders the outskirts of the Night Court, alone beneath the stars, the distant bonfires reflecting crimson and gold in her dark eyes.
She is not the kind for festivals; she has never been, not even when she made her home alongside more than just a unicorn with a lion in her bones. Instead she haunts the edges, restless and watching, and the music that drifts to her does little to soften her heart.
Shrike doesn’t know what she is looking for until she finds it - but of course she should have known, because it is Calliope.
The paint hadn’t meant to return to the lakeshore, a crimson crescent that would go to silver as soon as the sun set behind the rim of mountains. It is the source of her shame and her fury and nearly her loss; when she sweeps her gaze across it now it is Raymond’s expression she sees, eyes tight on her like a blade to her throat. Shrike chuffs a breath like a bear into the hot summer night, and then lifts her head again and sees the unicorn.
Of course she joins her, running like a ghost across the whispering grasses, heedless of the tame horses across the shore. When she reaches the black mare she thrusts her muzzle roughly against her shoulder, a kiss with teeth, a reminder (to herself alone) of what they owe one another, and what they will yet give.
If she is surprised to find Calliope without the red stallion by her side, she says nothing of it.
Instead she only matches her pace, her gaze casting like a hunting hound’s between the lakeshore and the lion-heart at her side. This time there are no thunder-birds above them, and no black gods beside - this time, echoing across the quiet lake, there are sounds of laughter and joy.
But there are always monsters to be hunted, even on nights like this.
don't do much these days
keep the wolves at bay
keep the wolves at bay
