there is fire everywhere
and i am lost in it
and i am lost in it
F
rom within the expanse of white comes a streak of blue, vibrant and lovely amidst the rubble. Odet stands out easily here, with his broad wings and his warbling song, flitting back and forth from one destroyed market stall to another. He lands briefly, a puff of ash and snow rising into the air around him. A moment later he’s back in the air, winging his way back to his bonded, something red bright within his beak. He flies through a small crowd of children, who cry out in laughter as the wind he makes tousles their baby-fuzz manes. It’s a strange sound, Ipomoea thinks: one that doesn’t quite belong here in the markets, yet one that blossoms hope in his breast none the less.
The songbird alights on his bonded’s crest, light as a feather as he tucks his wings in neatly. With a muffled chirp and a couple hopping steps, he leans down over Ipomoea’s brow, tucking a small sprig of winterberries into his mane. A smile, small and wispy, finds its way to the appaloosa’s face.
“Thank you,” he says softly, as Odet takes flight once more. A bright, mimetic chirrup is his response, as the steller’s jay returns to the air.
He hasn’t been standing there long when another joins him. Ipomoea watches the silver-haired mare from the corner of his eye as she comes up beside him and stops, an eagle tucked away on her back. He wonders briefly if they’re bondeds, like himself and Odet; or maybe the eagle had been injured somehow, and she is a caretaker looking after it. Either way it’s clear the mare is protecting the avian, and even without knowing her, Ipomoea is glad to see her.
”Such destruction on such a peaceful night.” She, like the rest of Denocte, is still grieving the attack from the night before. It still feels surreal; Ipomoea had come to the Night Court knowing they were on the brink of war, but seeing an act of such destruction was another thing entirely.
For a moment he is silent, mulling over her words, remembering the sound of her smoke-choked voice.
"It certainly was," he says softly, and his voice is nearly as hoarse as her’s. He was there that night, witnessing the fires firsthand. He had gone in to save as many supplies as he could, before Fable had brought them water from the lakes - he’ll never forget the taste of smoke, rich with burning fruits and grains. The smoke from Viride had been woody and piney; but the smoke here had been cloying, burning his lungs until they were blackened with tar.
"Sometimes, I wish we could stop time like Tempus," he starts after a pause, turning to examine the stranger beside him. "That we could just watch the snow fall without worrying about the winter that comes with it." A winter with less food, and an enemy that strikes in the dark. He hoped Delumine was faring better; the harvest had been delayed due to the fires, he knew, and when the snow came, it came with force.
Ipomoea shook his head slightly to clear his mind. It was no use fretting about things he didn’t know; until the next letter from home came, he would focus on the work left to do in Denocte.
