some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
The hissing sound of blades upon ice slithers through the night. Leonidas comes, stepping out of the shadow of the trees about the lake. His aureate eyes drink in the dark figures, limned in moonlight as they appear to float through the silver-dark night. Laughter and screams bubble up from smiling lips and fallen bodies. He is in no rush to move and stands dark as a shadow, his body a stag, his antlers leached of their gold in the moonlight. They glow pale as bone.
Nicnevin.
Leonidas speaks the name, over and over within his mind. Then he lifts the parchment he holds and beneath the moonlight studies the words. Nicnevin. He speaks the name aloud, lets the syllables, the sound of it dance across his tongue and lips. He thinks of how he makes the noise and looks to the page and all the dark, cursive letters. The wild-wood boy does not know which pattern makes each noise. He does not know where that name Nicnevin, is written. He would like to… Though a year alone within a wood has taught him many things it has not taught a boy how to read. He found the letter pinned to a tree he passes day in and day out. He plucked the invitation from the bark and knew it contained words. He knew none of them.
It took him a day to find someone who might read it for him. “Leonidas,” They read, “You are cordially invited to a playdate with Nicnevin. Meet at night upon the Vitreus Lake when the moon is at its fullest.” And he peered at the invitation after, eagerly scouring the words for his name. He spent hours gazing upon the paper and its elegant type, wondering which pattern bore his name and which one said ‘Nicnevin’.
The invitation is worn from his attention, its corners are bent and worried, and creases lie sharp across its face. When at last he tips his solemn gaze up from his invite, the lake is ever more full of horses. How would he find Nicnevin amidst them all? He turns, reluctant and defeated. The woodland calls her orphan boy back to her and he goes. Except…
Except for a flash of gold and bronze that glows beneath moonlight and sings like a blade. Oh, Leonidas knows the song of that body. He knows her laughter in the air. He smiles as he moves to her. The sight of her sets static coursing across his skin, he shivers in remembrance of their dance and the storm that framed their meeting.
“Wildling,” Leonidas breathes and presses his muzzle to her neck, relieved, emboldened by a familiar face.
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