I P O M O E A
—
H
e had been here for their last festival — for the unveiling of the new gates (no, not a gate; an arch), for the songs and stories that had heralded a new era. He had wanted to believe them. Oh, he had wanted to feel their same hope and excitement, had wanted to replace the shadows in his eyes with the dreams of his youth. But he only stands there, and when a coin is passed to him with Caligo’s emblem on one side and her constellation on the other, and he is pushed forward and told make a wish — there are none to make. He stares down into the dark waters of the well, firelight dancing across its surface and turning it into a mirror. The coin breaks it into a thousand different pieces when he tosses it in, but only for a moment, only while he blinks, and then it rushes back together again. It feels like a sin, to cast an empty wish into a well.
When he steps away he sees the Regent, her face bright against the darkness and the woodsmoke. It makes a part of his heart begin to sing again, to know she at least still joins her people in their markets.
His teeth flash like moonflowers unfurling in the night when he smiles at her. It makes him feel almost-soft again, like he remembers how to be anything but the ghost drifting between the trees of a decimated forest.
“Denocte has always been a second-home to me,” the half-truth feels strange on his lips. “I’m sure my people won’t miss me for a night.” He always tells himself that — that it’s only one night, that tomorrow his heart will belong to Delumine again. Sometimes he wonders how many times he’ll need to say it before it becomes the truth.
Around them the gypsies are dancing. The musicians are playing their flutes and beating their drums and raising their voices. It’s easy to imagine the whole world is singing along tonight. Note by note it rises, swells in pitch, echoes in his blood. A part of him remembers it still, from when he was only a boy who ran away over and over and over to Denocte.
“I came here to see,” he begins, only to pause while a fire-dancer bends a flame-crafted horse around the onlookers. The fire warms his face, embers sparking and blazing in the air. “To see how Denocte has been,” he finishes, turning back to her. Because he loves it too much, more than a king of distant meadows deserves to.
you have dug your soul out of the dark
do not go back to what buried you
@morrighan
