[P] errant

[Nicnevin]

YOU ARE LIKE A CLOUD SEEN BETWEEN BRANCHES
in your eyes the laughter and strangeness of a sky that is not yours.

The woman who emerges from my peripheral vision is like a shard of sunlight in the pre-dawn; soft gold, mostly, and accented with gentle cream. She’s lovely, and most of all in her eyes, which are a brilliant blue, a blue that reminds me profoundly of the sky – though I only just know how to make the comparison.

I am barely looking at her – and yet, even before I turn my head (sending, of course, a cascade of distracting forelock tumbling into my eyes; I quickly sweep it out of the way, tucking it behind one horn almost self-consciously), I know that she is beautiful. She is a simple beauty, but beautiful regardless, and there is something to the way she carries herself that makes me altogether too aware of how I fit in this body, how my legs are still far more than a fraction too long for my frame, how my hair is a mess of unkempt and fiery tangles, how I hold myself like I am still a traveler in this body, rather than its owner and sole inhabitant. I feel clumsy, compared to her (but I am beginning to think that I am clumsy in general), and oh-so young.

I watch her, eyes saucer-wide, and, when she smiles – I think that it does not quite reach her eyes. It is almost disappointing.

That is his way of saying, ‘get back,’ she says, and laughs. It is the sound of her laughter that makes me aware that the situation is probably funny, if you happen to know what you are looking at; I am still somewhat jarred by discovering that the rock moves, so, when I smile to her in kind, my smile is a restless thing, still nervous at the edges. I would listen to him if I were you. Her eyes drift down to the little thing, which is still snapping its claw-hands at me unhappily, and I follow her stare.

When her words sink in on me, they do it abruptly. There is a momentary pause between what she says and my recognition of what she says – it is all very much to deal with at once. The sea and the sky and the smell of salt and sand, the little creature that looks like a stone with limbs and large black eyes, the woman who looks like sunlight, and then me, standing wayward on the shoreline, not quite myself and not at all a thing of this world. It’s a little bit too much, probably, but I would be as good as admitting defeat if I were to admit it to myself.

“Ah-“ I say, a nervous (and apologetic, though I am sure that the little creature is not aware of it, and though I suspect it would not understand it even if it were aware) quiver in my voice. I take several wide steps back, towards the pale woman, and then tilt my head at her, wide-eyed. “Do you…think that this is far enough?” I have been enough small and helpless creatures to have little desire to trouble them, much as I struggle to empathize with them properly as I am now. It is too easy to apply my own morals and reasonings and understandings to something that I know (from experience) does not think or feel that way at all. It should be a kindness, but I have come to realize that it is far more of a cruelty, and nearly a selfish one. I look back, then, to the little thing, unable to rein in my curiosity. “What is he?” I am sure that the question will expose my inexperience; but, then, I suspect that my stance has already exposed it regardless.

Not too many find this little area, are you lost? There is something softer in her voice, now – something that wasn’t there before, and a gleam in the cerulean blue of her eyes. It reminds me of a warm bath, and it somehow settles my (unnecessarily troubled) nerves. (I really did feel awful about upsetting the poor creature.) What’s your name? I blink.

“Lost?” I repeat, but the question in my voice is mostly directed at myself. Am I lost? “In a way, I suppose. I didn’t have anywhere that I intended to go - and somehow I found myself here.” I think that I probably should; there is a quiet urgency that lingers in the back of my mind, like some snare full of some rotting thing, that reminds me of the Heir, and of my people, and of the responsibility that has been placed on my (all-too-young; all-too-old) shoulders. I am scared, if I am being honest, maybe even terrified. I am scared, and I am desperate not to think about it. “I am Nicnevin – a knight of the Wynding Gold.” My knees bend on instinct, and I dip into a graceful bow, wings halfway outstretched at my sides. “Might I know your name, my lady?” That might be-

a bit much.

The courtesies are probably useless. They roll of my tongue practiced, practiced - like I’ve said them a hundred thousand times, and I probably have. I do not stop to think that they are likely excessive (and maybe even troublesome) until they are already out of my mouth. This land is not the Wynding Gold, and I am only just beginning to learn the distinction between what is polite and what is troublesome in “Novus.”

(I wonder, too, about the other cultures within it. I have only the barest grasp of Terrastella, and there are three other nations that inhabit this place; I can hardly imagine how they coexist. I suppose that I will find out eventually.)

For now – the world is wide and blinding-bright, and I have no room for useless worries.

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@Elena || <3 | "nocturne," cesare pavese

"Speech!" 

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