WHAT HE IS CAPABLE OF, YOUR MIND,
in the moment, scrambling to revise what you thought you knew of him and how with what you now know
The girl didn’t notice me. I can’t tell, with the deer and his milk-white eyes; he doesn’t seem to startle like she does, or freeze up, but I think I can see a contraction of his muscles that suggest he has gone tense at my appearance. I catch myself just short of thinking good, and I tell myself not to expect the worst. That would be rude.
The deer sees me first, his empty stare training on me, and I stand beneath it unflinching, though not hostile. She seems to follow his stare to find me, and, when she does, she watches me for what feels like quite some time. (It is likely not so long at all, though she is moving slowly.) She steps away from the deer and towards me, and somehow the new space between them grants me some measure of relief.
The girl responds to my question with, “As well as can be expected,” like a courtly lady or a princess; and, now that I can get a good look at her, I think that she seems quite like one, with her slender, mottled moth-grey form and her pale eyes, and her long hair. Those feathers at her hip start to seem less like a simple oddity, or a quirk, than the residue of some fairy-tale curse or quest. I wonder if she has been a bird before, in this life or the last. I think that it would make sense. She looks like a wisp, some lady-turned-forest-spirit, right down to the dead crow’s skull (that is far too large for a crow) that sits on her forehead, momentarily turned up.
(There are stories of princesses who speak with the disembodied head of their dearest animal companion. I have always liked those, because I remember being a sword, and it always seems to me that it was a pity that I could never speak to my wielder; but, then, if I did speak, I would cease to be a sword.)
(If she is cursed, if they are cursed, or they were cursed – I suppose that would explain the stalking cat in deerskin.)
My proper manners take over, even though I’m not quite sure what to say - that isn’t what I meant might be a bit insulting, and I don’t want to trouble her any further. “I’m glad to hear it,” I say, instead, and sincerely. I don’t know how well I am expecting her to be, and I’m a bit afraid to ask for clarification. If she is being antagonized, she doesn’t seem particularly inclined to tell me about it.
She adds, a moment later, Oh. He won’t hurt you. By “he,” I can only assume that she means the buck, and I don’t quite believe her, but I don’t say it.
It’s not me I’m worried about him hurting, I want to say, but I don’t say that, either. I have a feeling that I shouldn’t – that, if I did, it might break the fragile peace that has descended upon the clearing. That it might make that poor, possibly-cursed soul angry, and, for the both of our sake’s, I think it would be best to avoid trouble.
“Alright,” I say, instead, and decide to trust her, or, at the very least, try to. (My knightly impulses refuse to allow me to put my guard down entirely, at least around something that seems so wrong in its own skin.) She must know her companion better than I do, after all, and I should know better than to go sticking my nose into the business of total strangers. (They both look a little bit scuffed up, though – and that’s to say nothing of what little bits of their conversation I heard her saying before I showed up.)
She doesn’t say anything else, as though she doesn’t know how to, so I keep talking instead. “I’m Nicnevin,” I say, and dip low into one of those compulsive bows, wings outstretching; they are so long that they brush up against the birch trees on either side of the grove, “a knight of the Winding Gold. Who are you – and your companion -, miss?” I raise my head slowly, a few unkempt chestnut curls falling between my eyes; I swipe them away quickly, almost without thinking, my eyes trained on the two of them.
I know I should be keeping my eye on the buck, but my stare keeps lingering on the girl’s pale green eyes. They’re striking, against her coat, and they remind me pleasantly of new growth.
@Maybird || discord eyes emoji | "the older boys," grady chambers
"Speech!"
EVERYTHING IS RISK, SHE WHISPERED.if you doubt, it becomes sand trickling through skeletal fingers.☙❧please tag Nic! contact is encouraged, short of violence
