“do you like spring, aspara?” I had the answer on the tip of my tongue before she even finished saying my name: “it’s not my favorite.”
I think every child goes through a phase where favorite is a word of the utmost distinction. In that phase (I think for me it was somewhere around my first birthday?) I found it important to identify my favorite food, my favorite color, my favorite room in the court. It was like… if identity could not yet be defined by action (for I had as of that point done so very little with my life) my young mind thought it must be defined by the things one liked, and maybe by extension the things one wanted to be.
Anyway, in that phase I had decided that of all the seasons, winter was my favorite. I think in part because no one else seemed to like it very much, and also because that was the season I was born in. At the time I didn’t see what other reasons I needed. This was a decision I stood by for most of my youth. Eventually I would yield to the admission that all seasons were good in some way or another, and I looked forward to each of them in equal measure. It took time to realize that most of all it was the change I liked, and (although this will seem contradictory) the predictability of that change. I don’t know if I would have liked to live in a place that always felt like spring, although I certainly looked forward to visiting again.
In the end, I didn’t tell her that winter was my favorite. “That sounds kind of strange,” I admitted, “but nice! Spring is a great season. Very, uh, fresh.” As soon as it was out of my mouth it sounded placating, like a consolation prize, and though this is not my intent it was too late to take back. I just smiled, sheepish and apologetic, and eagerly followed the flow of conversation to Night Court.
I had heard from a lot of non-Denoctians how they enjoyed the Night Court festivals, but personally they were my least favorite part of my homeland. Maybe I just wasn’t old enough yet to appreciate them. Or maybe I would always prefer the wide-open spaces of the lake, the mountains, the prairie. Still, I smiled to think of pretty Maret enjoying the festivities with her father.
I wasn’t bothered by her question at all-- I would have asked it too, if I were her. “Well, he was supposed to take me and my sister, but they went with my mom on a trip across the sea.” My cheeks already felt warm with the question that always followed such a statement: why didn’t you go with them? I figured I might as well answer it before it was asked. “I stayed behind to defend Denocte. You know, just in case something bad happened.” I dragged a hoof in the sand and shrugged. “Also… I get seasick.” It was hard not to feel a little deflated after these admissions, even when Furfur caught a fish and yelped with delight as though he was just a hugely oversized puppy and not a literal demon. Well, maybe that brought a little smile to my face.
I was realizing how I probably looked like a liar or an idiot or both, to be talking about defending Denocte when I was there on the beach, having a nice stroll. Maret would be too sweet to point this out, but she didn’t need to-- I was my harshest critic. “Well, I should get back to defending.” My smile was perhaps a little self-mocking. “You should come visit me sometime. I’ll show you the best spots in the city.”
I whistled at my wolf, who stared at the sea one long, thoughtful moment before loping cheerfully to my side, ready for the next adventure. “It was lovely to meet you, Maret.” I danced forward and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek, then I turned and began to follow my own hoofprints home.
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@Maret fin! Maret is the sweetest prettiest girl ever, we adore her and aspara wants a sleepover sometime <3
