BUT I BITE AT IT AS AT A MYSTERY
nostalgia for the impending present / and I'll never catch hold of it.
Oh, I’m enamored with this landscape, this moon-bright snow – it lines the hills in a near-unbroken coat of white, largely undisturbed where it fell, most likely, only hours ago. Frost clings to the dark branches of trees, which reach leaflessly up towards a luminous sky. The moon is near-full and heavy, and the sky is cloudless and spattered with more stars than I could possibly count, at least as Nicnevin. (I think for a moment of Maeve, and the way she told me that her ancestors are stars, and I wonder if they are watching, in their strange, eyeless way.)
I am here on a playdate - an adorably childish term. (It is always strange, being so young again.) The letter was a surprise. (I still haven’t the faintest how it ended up on Elena’s doorstep, or who signed me up for it.) Still. I thought that it might be a good way to meet new people, and I was rather excited to go to Denocte for the first time besides.
I am looking for a Leonidas, apparently. I don’t have the faintest idea of who he is or where to find him, but I’m in no rush to figure out who, among the throng of gathered figures, he is. No, I am too delighted with the landscape to worry. The lake is frozen solid and far more beautiful than I ever expected. The snow-through-branches is surreal, an elegant blend of black and white. The air is cold and crisp, but I can smell something sweet on it; several someones have set up booths offering different drinks, and I only recognize the apple cider from its sweet, mulled scent. (There is something else that seems all the more popular – dark brown, with fluffy white things, like cylindrical clouds, floating on the surface.)
Most of all, however, I am enchanted by the figures skating on the ice. A few of them stumble, and they have to cling to their companions to stay upright; however, others slide across the slick surface as easily as trained dancers. They are dark silhouettes in the moonlight, moving, in most cases, too fast to make out. I cannot help but look at them and think that I want to do that – that I want to possess that grace -, too.
Before I can go down to the lake, however, I am approached.
The dark-brown-and-gold form of the storm boy appears at the edge of my vision; he is difficult to miss, shedding gold sparks that gleam and burn out in the pale moonlight. I turn to look at him as he bridges all the space between us and presses his muzzle to my neck. Wildling, he says, whisper-soft, and I smile. (Wildling? Maybe a bit. I have certainly worn other skins, seen the world through other eyes – been the world I occupy, not just an occupant.)
“Strangeling,” I say, and tilt my head to look at him. “Here on a date?”
(I could push him away, but I don’t – a friendly touch is a welcome warmth on such a cold winter night.)
@
"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
