THE MANY MILES WE WALK, THE MANY THINGS WE LEARN
THE BUILDING OF A SHRINE ONLY JUST TO BURN
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THE BUILDING OF A SHRINE ONLY JUST TO BURN
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"I see," Raymond replied, matching his tone to the weight of her aching smile. He had never been the sort to spare words for the lost, much less to erect shrines and burn incense in their honor, but such was the way of savage beasts. Out there in the between spaces, people died with none but the coyotes and vultures to remark upon their final rest, and perhaps ten seasons on their ghost might be stirred by the recollection of an old acquaintance's stray memory, but mourning - proper mourning - was a luxury left to civilized folk.
What has brought you back to court life?
The red stallion frowned, blinking briefly down at the space left between them in a vain attempt to draw from it an apropos response. None came.
He had retreated because Ruth slept as though dead, brought low by a hundred Thunderbird wounds. Because Calliope had gone to face the rift without him, taking with his heart the whole of the only family he had known in his tumultuous life. Because there was no place within stone walls and gilded halls for the law of beasts. But all those incontrovertible truths could not silence the quiet, still-primal call of an ancestral need buried so deep that even the rift couldn't burn it out.
And that, dear reader, was what tore the half-strangled chuckle of derision from his sooty lips. "I suppose I came back because, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I am still a horse." Nothing more, nothing less, a lost soul ruled by the basic equine desire to belong.
Disgusting, right?
Raymond found his eye drawn past Katniss to the tent's interior, where her votive still worked whatever sentimental magic it possessed on the air within. He could not deny the romantic sincerity of it despite a lifetime of self-denial, and a quiet corner of himself set to wondering at each dip and shudder of the candle flame. What might he say in memoriam - and to whom?
Huffing softly, he reined in his wandering thoughts. "Ruth fared poorly in the Thunderbird attack. She healed swiftly, but for months I didn't think she would wake."
Yes, Raymond, but what of Denocte's regent? What of the perils that befell the kingdom and its queen in his absence? What of the horror that followed Katniss home? Do you know a fraction of the suffering your presence could possibly have prevented? Do you care?
He didn't, and that was part of the problem. Whatever cloth had been cut to make the red stallion a good servant, whatever dutiful patriotism his Rendari upbringing had granted him, had bled out with the massacre of his tribe and turned to ash under the scorching Badlands sun.
"Now that she's awake and well, I'm free to return." He tilted his head upward with an easy but closed-lipped smile that faded as quickly as it had come at the sight of the candle still flickering like a firefly at the mare's back.
At length, distant and low, he asked, "Does that help?"
What has brought you back to court life?
The red stallion frowned, blinking briefly down at the space left between them in a vain attempt to draw from it an apropos response. None came.
He had retreated because Ruth slept as though dead, brought low by a hundred Thunderbird wounds. Because Calliope had gone to face the rift without him, taking with his heart the whole of the only family he had known in his tumultuous life. Because there was no place within stone walls and gilded halls for the law of beasts. But all those incontrovertible truths could not silence the quiet, still-primal call of an ancestral need buried so deep that even the rift couldn't burn it out.
And that, dear reader, was what tore the half-strangled chuckle of derision from his sooty lips. "I suppose I came back because, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I am still a horse." Nothing more, nothing less, a lost soul ruled by the basic equine desire to belong.
Disgusting, right?
Raymond found his eye drawn past Katniss to the tent's interior, where her votive still worked whatever sentimental magic it possessed on the air within. He could not deny the romantic sincerity of it despite a lifetime of self-denial, and a quiet corner of himself set to wondering at each dip and shudder of the candle flame. What might he say in memoriam - and to whom?
Huffing softly, he reined in his wandering thoughts. "Ruth fared poorly in the Thunderbird attack. She healed swiftly, but for months I didn't think she would wake."
Yes, Raymond, but what of Denocte's regent? What of the perils that befell the kingdom and its queen in his absence? What of the horror that followed Katniss home? Do you know a fraction of the suffering your presence could possibly have prevented? Do you care?
He didn't, and that was part of the problem. Whatever cloth had been cut to make the red stallion a good servant, whatever dutiful patriotism his Rendari upbringing had granted him, had bled out with the massacre of his tribe and turned to ash under the scorching Badlands sun.
"Now that she's awake and well, I'm free to return." He tilted his head upward with an easy but closed-lipped smile that faded as quickly as it had come at the sight of the candle still flickering like a firefly at the mare's back.
At length, distant and low, he asked, "Does that help?"
***
Raymond
that's the way it is, that's the way it is
Raymond
that's the way it is, that's the way it is
@
aut viam inveniam aut faciam
