The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Without a path, she wanders, hoofprints lost in icy drifts. The moon wanes far above, its face nearly extinguished in the night sky, its faint light put to shame by the stars, whose glimmering grants the slightest gleam to her dark coat, just barely frosts her delicate wingtips, only slightly illuminates her amber eyes. It is a peculiar mood she finds herself in this evening as she presses on through the snow. She is but a shadow in a strange land, for though she has joined them, she does not yet belong. She is a storyteller without a story to tell, a songstress without a melody to croon, a player without a stage on which to perform. Is it any wonder that she finds herself lost?
The fortress that is home to the Dawn Court lies above: above the forest through which she meanders, every bit as aimless as the river that crashes along the banks that she so recently left behind. Perhaps even more so; the river, at least, has found a track through the wilderness, has established a foothold in a land that, doubtless, fought its advance with every breath. She wonders how long it took for the Court’s walls to be forged, for its towers to be raised. Did the forest fight back, aching to hold onto the old ways, fearing that which was as yet unknown? Or had it given in, embracing the change, yearning for the glory that was, like it or not, someday to be? It seems so easy, gazing upon the stone towers that stand tall upon the cliffs above, to imagine that the fortress has always existed, that its inhabitants have always had a place to call their own. Do they all know exactly where they fit, threads woven perfectly into the great tapestry of life that stretches across miles and years?
She is at the foot of the last rise, the gates of the capitol suddenly in view. The path has found her again, or she it – but does the distinction even matter? So long as her hooves can follow those that came before her, does it matter how she got there, what road she once followed? Can she still leave behind all that once was in favor of a new mold, one that will transform her into a puzzle piece that will finally fit?
She plows on through the snow, a new determination in her amber eyes, and finds herself, before long, in front of the gates to the Dawn Court. What new adventures await her inside those massive walls?
Mask Image -- IgnisFatuusII
Poem Excerpt -- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening by Robert Frost
