IF YOU CATCH THE TRAIN TO NOWHERE, YOU'LL FIND THE STRANGEST MAN I'VE EVER MET. WHO CLAIMED HIS EARS WERE RINGING WITH THE SOUND OF HIS REGRET, BACK THEN TIME HAD NOT YET TAUGHT ME, REGRET WAS NOT THE SOUND I KNEW, SO I THOUGHT NOTHING MORE OF SILENCE WAS LEFT BY THINGS YOU DIDN'T DO.
It was a quiet, pleasant night, where the air was just cold enough to nip at noses and ears but it was not quite painful, not quite offensive, just chilly enough to frost the ground and fill the city with the scent of woodsmoke and roasting pecans. It was serenely, tranquilly quiet, as the Dusk Court often was.
At least, until the doorway of one of Tucson’s frequented taverns opened and the warm light poured out. Along with it came the muted chatter of the guests within, and Tucson’s far less muted—one might even say howling—protest. ”What’dya mean I was disrupting’ the peace’? Again?” Tucson crowed, audibly, as he was ushered out by none other than the owner herself, Maurice. She was a stern draft cross, with curved ram horns and grey coat dappled in green, who was taking none of his nonsense. ”Come again next week, when you’ve learned to behave yourself,” she chastised, and the door slammed behind him.
The warm atmosphere of the tavern was abruptly replaced by winter’’s pinching, prevalent fingers. Tucson shivered and shook himself out, to include his membranous wings, mumbling under his breath. ”S’me joint, that.” It wasn’t as though he had been the only incriminating figure! For the sake of the almighty gods and goddesses, those scoundrels had put him up to the task! Tucson should’ve known better, then rise to the jest of his fellow Dusk Court soldiers. It had been the music! The live band had picked something besides what might have been Courtly proper, and the soldiers had gone to hollering. Tucson couldn’t help but climb up on the table and dance, clumsily spilling the contents upon his compatriots, the ground, and possibly the barmaid.
He stood listening to the din inside for a moment, but the ruckus had calmed down significantly with his impromptu exit. It just wasn’t right, Tucson thought, that a tavern could kick him out for something as innocent as table dancing. Back home, you could shoot a man and still get served—
Tucson caught himself and attempted—successful or unsuccessful was yet to be decided—to somber his thoughts. I ain’t home, Tucson reminded himself. He was Courtly now, and Shane would have died laughing at the thought. Tucson glanced back at the tavern and then began to move down the street, swerving slightly, as he headed toward the next bar he could think of… turns out, however, one did not come readily to mind. This tavern was established close to the soldier’s quarters, and made quite a bit of profit of serving the young men and women…Ah, damn.
The stallion turned around, snuck through the alleyway to the back, and whistled at the cook through the rear door, which was open to let the heat of the kitchen escape. ”’Ey, Scotts, c’n ‘ya gimme a bottle of something? Ol’ Mrs. Killjoy kicked me out. Again.” The scrawny pegasus that tended the bread and stew cracked a wide grin. ”You’ve got to stop dancing on the table, Tucson, or she’s going to kick you out every week—”
”I d’n wanna hear it, Scotts, can’t bear it, it’s downright tragic, I tell ya, that you Dusk Court fellas can’t party in peace.” There was an opening on the other side of the kitchen, and as Tucson heard the owner’s voice, he ducked low in the alley behind a series of crates. He waited patiently for several minutes, before Scotts exited with a bundle of trash and a bottle of some type of whiskey or scotch. ”Now, you behave yourself, Tucson.”
”Aw, Scotts, y’know I’m nothin’but a’ sweetheart.” Tucson winked, and with a flourish of his draconic wings, he coiled his haunches and leaped from the alleyway. He heard Maurice cursing behind him, but it was too late. Tucson, with several beats of his wings, was sky-born.
It was not much later that he had secured himself a position on the cliffside. He opened the bottle telekinetically, and took a deep drink of the fire-water. It left him breathless, but Tucson enjoyed it, and that’s what he focused on—breathing in the clean sea air of the cliffside, and enjoying the warmth in his stomach that fought the chill of the night, and the pang of loneliness he felt deep within him.
Staring out at the sea, he knew he wasn’t looking west—but when the sun set, always westward, he would follow it home with his eyes. Now, though, the sky was dark and the night was quiet, and all his previous animation had left him still and thoughtful. Or, at least, as thoughtful was Tucson ever was—which was to say his mind was occupied with the burn of the drink, the sweet sea air, the feel of the chill, and… and was that a sound?
HE SAID HE HOPED THE SOUND OF NOTHING WAS THE WORST I HAD EVER HEARD. BECAUSE REGRET DRIVES YOU AS CRAZY AS THE TASTE OF SWALLOWED WORDS, "IT'S A STONE THROWN IN A WELL," HE MUSED, AND THIS I'VE NOT FORGOTTEN: "IT'S LISTENING ALL YOUR LIFE AND NEVER HEARING IT HIT THE BOTTOM."
It was a quiet, pleasant night, where the air was just cold enough to nip at noses and ears but it was not quite painful, not quite offensive, just chilly enough to frost the ground and fill the city with the scent of woodsmoke and roasting pecans. It was serenely, tranquilly quiet, as the Dusk Court often was.
At least, until the doorway of one of Tucson’s frequented taverns opened and the warm light poured out. Along with it came the muted chatter of the guests within, and Tucson’s far less muted—one might even say howling—protest. ”What’dya mean I was disrupting’ the peace’? Again?” Tucson crowed, audibly, as he was ushered out by none other than the owner herself, Maurice. She was a stern draft cross, with curved ram horns and grey coat dappled in green, who was taking none of his nonsense. ”Come again next week, when you’ve learned to behave yourself,” she chastised, and the door slammed behind him.
The warm atmosphere of the tavern was abruptly replaced by winter’’s pinching, prevalent fingers. Tucson shivered and shook himself out, to include his membranous wings, mumbling under his breath. ”S’me joint, that.” It wasn’t as though he had been the only incriminating figure! For the sake of the almighty gods and goddesses, those scoundrels had put him up to the task! Tucson should’ve known better, then rise to the jest of his fellow Dusk Court soldiers. It had been the music! The live band had picked something besides what might have been Courtly proper, and the soldiers had gone to hollering. Tucson couldn’t help but climb up on the table and dance, clumsily spilling the contents upon his compatriots, the ground, and possibly the barmaid.
He stood listening to the din inside for a moment, but the ruckus had calmed down significantly with his impromptu exit. It just wasn’t right, Tucson thought, that a tavern could kick him out for something as innocent as table dancing. Back home, you could shoot a man and still get served—
Tucson caught himself and attempted—successful or unsuccessful was yet to be decided—to somber his thoughts. I ain’t home, Tucson reminded himself. He was Courtly now, and Shane would have died laughing at the thought. Tucson glanced back at the tavern and then began to move down the street, swerving slightly, as he headed toward the next bar he could think of… turns out, however, one did not come readily to mind. This tavern was established close to the soldier’s quarters, and made quite a bit of profit of serving the young men and women…Ah, damn.
The stallion turned around, snuck through the alleyway to the back, and whistled at the cook through the rear door, which was open to let the heat of the kitchen escape. ”’Ey, Scotts, c’n ‘ya gimme a bottle of something? Ol’ Mrs. Killjoy kicked me out. Again.” The scrawny pegasus that tended the bread and stew cracked a wide grin. ”You’ve got to stop dancing on the table, Tucson, or she’s going to kick you out every week—”
”I d’n wanna hear it, Scotts, can’t bear it, it’s downright tragic, I tell ya, that you Dusk Court fellas can’t party in peace.” There was an opening on the other side of the kitchen, and as Tucson heard the owner’s voice, he ducked low in the alley behind a series of crates. He waited patiently for several minutes, before Scotts exited with a bundle of trash and a bottle of some type of whiskey or scotch. ”Now, you behave yourself, Tucson.”
”Aw, Scotts, y’know I’m nothin’but a’ sweetheart.” Tucson winked, and with a flourish of his draconic wings, he coiled his haunches and leaped from the alleyway. He heard Maurice cursing behind him, but it was too late. Tucson, with several beats of his wings, was sky-born.
It was not much later that he had secured himself a position on the cliffside. He opened the bottle telekinetically, and took a deep drink of the fire-water. It left him breathless, but Tucson enjoyed it, and that’s what he focused on—breathing in the clean sea air of the cliffside, and enjoying the warmth in his stomach that fought the chill of the night, and the pang of loneliness he felt deep within him.
Staring out at the sea, he knew he wasn’t looking west—but when the sun set, always westward, he would follow it home with his eyes. Now, though, the sky was dark and the night was quiet, and all his previous animation had left him still and thoughtful. Or, at least, as thoughtful was Tucson ever was—which was to say his mind was occupied with the burn of the drink, the sweet sea air, the feel of the chill, and… and was that a sound?
HE SAID HE HOPED THE SOUND OF NOTHING WAS THE WORST I HAD EVER HEARD. BECAUSE REGRET DRIVES YOU AS CRAZY AS THE TASTE OF SWALLOWED WORDS, "IT'S A STONE THROWN IN A WELL," HE MUSED, AND THIS I'VE NOT FORGOTTEN: "IT'S LISTENING ALL YOUR LIFE AND NEVER HEARING IT HIT THE BOTTOM."
