Ianthe sleeps fitfully, snatching it in fits and starts, restless. There is no wind beneath her wings, no beat to maintain to keep her aloft, and no shuffle of friendly feathers. The ground beneath her hooves taunts her, and she paces it. Lays down, gets up, back and forth and up and down until sweat gleams upon her shivering skin and her stomach tries to tie itself in knots.
When last did she sleep with stone or grass or dirt solid beneath her? Foggy are her memories of days spent wild and reckless, roaming that plateau in some misplaced territory. She thinks she remembers a chase, beating wings and slamming bulk, ending in what was nearly a pile of bodies and tangled limbs. She thinks she remembers sleeping there, sprawled sideways, head pillowed in mud that would dry there and stay until the next rain. She thinks she remembers the peace of it.
There is no peace now, not here, not alone, and Ianthe is almost desperate to flee. But no, she has given her word, has been granted life by a god and assisted by his chosen and called by a mouthpiece of another to war. She can not leave, can not run, and even if she could, how far could she get? On wings she could traverse continents, but on foot?
Movement. Hyperaware in her state of agitation, Ianthe swings towards the sound before she can think, follows it before she knows what she’s doing. The General moves slowly through the court, heading, Ianthe thinks, for the outdoors, and she can’t help but chase after her. Haste makes her clumsy and every breath is pulled from the deepest parts of her. If she follows the General she is not abandoning her duty, is not disobeying a god. If she is following the General then at least she will be under the open sky again, if not in it.
Stone streets are a poor substitute for wisps of clouds, but the air moves here, breathes unrestricted by walls. She breathes with it, strains less, until her gasps fade into the night and the sweat soaking her skin begins to cool. Still she follows the General who, for all appearances, appears to be sleeping. Sleepwalking? Maybe this is something Ianthe ought to try for herself, maybe the action of walking could replace the action of flying and maybe at last she could find rest.
But that is not the point, not at this juncture. The General is sleepwalking alone, excepting the striped beast at her side, and sleep-flight is not a thing a Swift has ever done alone. The ground holds so many more threats than the air as well, and Ianthe has sworn herself to the General, she can not leave her unguarded in sleep, can not leave her to wander into walls and danger.
And the longer she follows the General, the longer she does not need to remain in stale, still aired buildings.
The General wakes, or maybe she simply murmurs in her sleep, Ianthe is not so close as to hear the words she speaks. Ianthe does not bring attention to herself, though she does cautiously move a little closer, unsure of her welcome, and sighs in relief when the General does not move to return. The mountains grow steadily closer, and Ianthe finds herself hoping that they will scale them, longs to reach for the sky beyond her reach and breathe thin air again.
Another appears on the path before them, and Ianthe’s lip begins to curl. Another heretic, awake and waiting, but there’s not enough energy left in her to rail against her presence, not tonight, and her face smooths back into placidity. Has sleep betrayed you too? The woman asks, not of her, but Ianthe can’t help but bob her head at the truth of it anyway and quickens her step slightly at the silent invitation to catch up without quite understanding why.
When last did she sleep with stone or grass or dirt solid beneath her? Foggy are her memories of days spent wild and reckless, roaming that plateau in some misplaced territory. She thinks she remembers a chase, beating wings and slamming bulk, ending in what was nearly a pile of bodies and tangled limbs. She thinks she remembers sleeping there, sprawled sideways, head pillowed in mud that would dry there and stay until the next rain. She thinks she remembers the peace of it.
There is no peace now, not here, not alone, and Ianthe is almost desperate to flee. But no, she has given her word, has been granted life by a god and assisted by his chosen and called by a mouthpiece of another to war. She can not leave, can not run, and even if she could, how far could she get? On wings she could traverse continents, but on foot?
Movement. Hyperaware in her state of agitation, Ianthe swings towards the sound before she can think, follows it before she knows what she’s doing. The General moves slowly through the court, heading, Ianthe thinks, for the outdoors, and she can’t help but chase after her. Haste makes her clumsy and every breath is pulled from the deepest parts of her. If she follows the General she is not abandoning her duty, is not disobeying a god. If she is following the General then at least she will be under the open sky again, if not in it.
Stone streets are a poor substitute for wisps of clouds, but the air moves here, breathes unrestricted by walls. She breathes with it, strains less, until her gasps fade into the night and the sweat soaking her skin begins to cool. Still she follows the General who, for all appearances, appears to be sleeping. Sleepwalking? Maybe this is something Ianthe ought to try for herself, maybe the action of walking could replace the action of flying and maybe at last she could find rest.
But that is not the point, not at this juncture. The General is sleepwalking alone, excepting the striped beast at her side, and sleep-flight is not a thing a Swift has ever done alone. The ground holds so many more threats than the air as well, and Ianthe has sworn herself to the General, she can not leave her unguarded in sleep, can not leave her to wander into walls and danger.
And the longer she follows the General, the longer she does not need to remain in stale, still aired buildings.
The General wakes, or maybe she simply murmurs in her sleep, Ianthe is not so close as to hear the words she speaks. Ianthe does not bring attention to herself, though she does cautiously move a little closer, unsure of her welcome, and sighs in relief when the General does not move to return. The mountains grow steadily closer, and Ianthe finds herself hoping that they will scale them, longs to reach for the sky beyond her reach and breathe thin air again.
Another appears on the path before them, and Ianthe’s lip begins to curl. Another heretic, awake and waiting, but there’s not enough energy left in her to rail against her presence, not tonight, and her face smooths back into placidity. Has sleep betrayed you too? The woman asks, not of her, but Ianthe can’t help but bob her head at the truth of it anyway and quickens her step slightly at the silent invitation to catch up without quite understanding why.
