Vercingtorix
—
T
he sun does not matter upon their shoulders.The changing season, too, seems irrelevant. The taste of winter is in the air. It occurs to him his birthday was this season; but earlier, when the leaves had just begun to change from vibrant greens to the brazen shades of decay. I am nine years old, he thinks, somewhat distantly, as Damascus flies overhead like a harbinger but high enough his size seems dismissible, at first.
This progression of time does not seem to matter.
Their march forward, toward Solterra, seems dizzyingly endless; they crest hill after hill of swaying, shoulder-high grass. Herds of buffalo roam, and Vercingtorix even sees elk run out of a forested pocket upon the plain before disappearing again.
This progression of time feels as if it belongs to another man entirely. The sun is a burden at their backs; it does little to pierce the cool air, until they near Solterra’s borders. It is only then that time begins to shift; that sand begins to shift through the hourglass, inevitably, with certainty, and yet—ticking, ticking, ticking.
Vercingtorix crests another, supple hill. The draw he has just abandoned may have masked his appearance, as it had the woman’s on the other side; he is utterly taken aback when he sees her, wading through the grass as he does. The jewellery catches Vercingtorix’s eyes first. He calls out a greeting to her “Good afternoon!” before loping in the pegasus’s direction.
Damascus, far above, tucks his wings and begins to descend. It does not take long for the dragon to near them; he hovers, momentarily, behind Vercingtorix. He beats his four wings to remain stationary in the air before landing with surprising suppleness for his size. Damascus does not yet approach; merely looms behind Torix.
“Are you coming from Solterra?” he asks, conversationally.
Whatever silence there had been, well.
It is gone now. Then: “I apologise for the melodrama of my companion.”
Damascus glowers.
i overcame myself, the sufferer;
i carried my own ashes to the mountains
