“Oh,” She breathed.
Fall had never been an ugly time for even the darkest and grittiest reaches of Novus. Indeed, as far back as the mare could remember, Autumn had always been a blaze of brilliant color before fading into the sleepy comfort of winter; one last fanfare before a gentle and temporary death. Yet, as the courtier gazed down the mountain’s flank and toward Dawn’s golden heart, Llewelyn found herself steeped in awe at the magnificence she beheld.
Nature had been hard at work painting itself in a riot of color and scent, heralding the approaching chill of season’s end with an almost violent show of beauty. Leaves fluttered gold, scarlet, vermillion, and a million shades between, their brothers and sisters fluttering to the earth one by one like candle’s flame. Once they reached the ground, though, their light did not go out, it only dimmed as they were covered in hoof prints and their crackling siblings.
From there, the soft scent of rot and rich, rich soil drifted heavenward - such an unexpected and welcome reprieve from the dank mustiness of the grave that had become Llewelyn’s constant companion in these past seasons. She could feel her tail twining and undulating gently in the whisper-soft breeze, the muscles about her shoulders and spine relaxing into a blessed calm while the sun caressed multicolored skin.
The sun caught the golden markings beneath her eyes, reflecting the light back into closed lids and setting the amniotic dark aglow with the gentle latticework of blood vessels and tissue. Llewelyn sighed, contented and careful - oh, so careful - not to break the moment that had been forged from part chance, part necessity.
The moment was broken regardless.
“Llewelyn?”
Some time in the future, she would be sure that some tiny part of her, some sentimental corner, had known he was coming and had chosen that time to step out of the cathedral. The Fates were kind and cruel and nothing at all, and they played with the lives of mortals just as mortals played with their own lives in turn. So as her eyes opened, Aurelian irises focusing on the charcoal image of her Mateo (after all this time, could she really claim him to be her own?), her surprise was not as bright as her joy.
He was beautiful. Winged and dark and smooth as obsidian glass. He was a picture of memory, a magnificent imprint of the present, a dazzling promise to future splendor.
Tears welled and threatened to spill over hunger-sharpened cheeks, though through them she smiled as if seeing the sun for the the first time. The scholar struggled to find words, to speak to him with a voice unwavering and reassuring, but all that spilled from her lips was a tremulous, “Language, my Beloved. That’s no way to speak to a Lady, you know.”
Explanations could come later, words upon words and emotions given name, but for now? For that fragile, wonderful, heartbreaking moment? Llewelyn had no use for words. A single step forward and suddenly she was flying toward him, malnourished body being pulled into the safety of his orbit once more as she sought to embrace her (because she could never stop seeing him as hers) most adored and revered confidante.
And amid the cacophony of feeling and overwhelming sensation of belonging, a comforting line of matronly advice began to ring in Llewelyn’s mind; Etiquette, the customary code of polite behavior...
@Mateo :’)
