The festival was ending. It might even be over now, as the sun struggled to rise over a cloudy sky and the last of the performers packed up their bags and left the stage. The Night Court was falling into a lull, streets deserted aside from a few remaining stragglers, litter and torn lanterns and crushed letters and forgotten scarves decorating the cobblestone streets.Everyone else had gone home, or was gone home. But not Maret.
The festival was over - but this was her favorite part. She stood alone in the streets, chin lifted defiantly towards the rising sun as if determined to prevent the morning from ruining her night of fun. A nearby streetlight bathed her shoulders in yellow, and she stood there within its embrace as if it was a spotlight made for her and for her alone.
Of course, she was not supposed to be alone. But she figured she had a decent bit of time left before her father found her again. Denocte was a big city after all. Big to her especially, being the scrawny foal that she still is.
She watches a couple stagger down the street past her, leaning heavily on each other’s shoulders for support. In the instant before they disappear into the fog, they look so much like a pair of ghosts out for a stroll that Maret can hardly bring herself to look away.
The clouds held back the sun -
The couple fades away but her eyes are still searching the shadows for them, her heart racing inside of her chest. She lifts one hoof, small and black, sets it back down, unable to stand still but unwilling to move.
So that they could walk together,
if only for one more minute -
The words are racing through her mind now, even once she can no longer see the specters.
The eyes glaze once, grey -
“Does anybody have a quill?” she interrupts herself. Her voice is too loud, too bright, but she doesn’t notice. A nearby street vendor looks up from his wares, glances in her direction. He makes a scoffing sound at her, shooing her away, and goes back to his work. This too, she does not notice. Not when the words are still swimming through her mind, obscuring her vision in streaks of ink that is flowing, flowing, flowing -
“Or paper?” Does anyone bother to look up? They are all ghosts now, grey in the gloom, mist and the morning, and the words won’t stop.
“Anybody?”
Not for the first time, she’s afraid that her own words might kill her before she ever gets the chance to write them down.
@avesta
