well, then I'd rather be wild
O finds herself surprised by how easy it is to stick to the shadows here. From a distance—down on the beach, even walking in from the streets of the city—they looked indomitable; as hot and bright as stars, powerful enough to burn comet-trails up into the sky. Even their smoke was intimidating. She had thought, up close, their strong, warm light would be unavoidable. That would it pour over the land and pool, like liquid gold.
But it’s not like that at all. Maybe Andi makes it easier. Her surefootedness guides O to the darkest corners of the path and keeps them there, winding gracefully through the shadows. With O’s cheek pressed to the Emissary’s shoulder—with blood and body heat between them, spread thick as an offering—she does not think she could pull away, even if she wanted to.
And whether she wants to is a different story entirely. Because it’s nice here. Here, in the warm dark. Here, with the wind whipping off the sea, blowing the smell of smoke into their faces. Here, in this place named for its spot between sunrise and nightfall, just outside the reach of those tongues of yellow flame—a little dot in space and time that feels so magical O almost wonders whether she’s making it all up, manipulating reality so fluently and desperately she’s lost track of whether or not she’s even doing it.
She’s suddenly snapped out of it by the light smack of Andi’s tail against her side. The coarse hairs sting her for just a moment, scaring out a sharp huff of breath, but then she’s plunged back into the cold water of the real universe and awake again; brightly, painfully, bodily awake.
I'm sorry, Andi says. O knows it's supposed to be a kind gesture, but somehow she can't help wincing. It's a minuscule motion. But sorry just doesn't fit Anandi correctly; it's not a word she would have ever imagined coming out of the emissary's mouth, and hearing it sets her slightly on edge, like she's walked into the wrong room or overheard a conversation she wasn't supposed to. For once she decides to be honest, and says in a low, half-laughing tone: "Somehow it's strange to hear you say that."
They walk and walk and walk. It seems like all of Terrastella has turned out to visit the bonfires. O sees children whispering worries to their parents so they can be written down; she sees lovers collaborating on notes to burn, or doing them separately while they share conspiratorial glances; she sees what she thinks is the Sovereign, tall and dark, slinking around the edges of the cliff, and grizzled old men watching their life stories burn into dove-grey ash. It's serious. And somehow sweet. All these mortals coming to terms with the shortness of their lives. All these girls and boys, pretending that a goddess watches down on them with benevolence rather than indifference. Quaint.
O wonders if Andi believes in this too. She wonders if it would matter at all.
"Your—" O's head jerks back suddenly. She gives Andi a sideways glance, all three eyes straining at their corners to read the kelpie's face for signs of a joke, but there are none; and when she realizes it, she tries to smooth her own expression as quickly as possible. "Ah. So you two have mother-daughter drama and... and almost sibling drama, with her. That sounds..." O trails off, but her voice is twisted into a faint laugh. She's trying very hard not to take it all so seriously. It's an unusual feeling, for her. "And your sisters," she adds as an afterthought. "You get along with them?"
She is not so dense as to miss the way Andi's body language changes at the mention of her family. In fact, she watches it closely. The emissary's body grows tense; her strides are longer, and quicker, drawn out by stress. Some of her usual grace is curbed by that sudden tightness. O wants to offer something. Some condolence. But she has never been good with words, and by the time she feels brave enough to open her mouth Andi has already changed the conversation, musing out loud that she'd like to set something on fire.
O leans in sideways and murmurs: "Like this?"
It takes a moment for her focus to gather itself. But then the world changes; the magic spills out of her. A line of insubstantial, though alarmingly real-looking, fire races from O's hooves over the dry grass at the edge of the cliffs and races, races, races forward. It pools at the crowd's feet. It pretends to swallow whole sheafs of paper. It rushes in to join the already lit bonfires and reaches into the sky as if it would like to touch the moon, harmless but realistic, and desperate.
I would set it all on real fire, if you wanted me to, O thinks. But she says nothing.
