EVEN WITH THEIR EYES CLOSED
TO NOT FEEL ALONE
The paper was slipped beneath the door of Dune’s shop while he was dreaming.
“A champion of many,
Enemy of few,
Is waiting in the snowy Plains
For a sweet date with you.
Bring a present, a gift,
Something to delight.
On this very first date
You don’t want to cause a fight.”
You’ll notice it didn’t say anything about Dune’s date being a man. When he approaches the plains near the appointed hour and he sees a massive stallion standing in wait, his first instinct is to laugh. Of course. Of course the street rat would be set up on a date with a man. Not just any man but El Toro, Champion of Battle.
Dune draws near and clears his throat loudly. “Are you my…” he doesn’t want to say the word, not out loud, and he wrestles with himself to spit it out. “Date?” Gods, this was stupid. Why did they both come all the way out here? They could have just stayed in Solterra. And talk about awkward... after this would they turn around and go back to Solterra together? If things didn’t go well it would be a long, quiet walk home. Dune sighs. Somewhere the gods are laughing, he’s sure of it.
“I, uh, brought you this.” He had intended it for a Deluminian librarian, pretty eyes hidden behind a long dark mane. Or a Denoctian princess, sharp of wit and will. But it was no pain to him to see it given to another. As he floats it between them he notices suddenly the striking, dancing color of the other man’s eyes. They dance in the distant lights like something cut from precious stone, cold and nuanced.
The present is wrapped in cheap paper, tied with hemp rope. A sprig of juniper is slipped beneath the lopsided bow knot. Inside, delicate edges padded with shredded coconut husk, is a little bird crafted of bits and pieces of scrap metal. It is leaping into flight, graceful bronze wings extended back in preparation to launch forward and up into the sky. It is not perfect, not even close. The bird’s eyes are two mis-matched pieces of obsidian, roughly chipped into spheres, and one wing is slightly longer than the other. Dune had wanted to refine it more- soften the edge of the metal so it wasn’t sharp enough to draw blood, or perhaps dismantle it all and do it over with some mechanism for flapping the wings. But there were never enough hours in the day for him to do all the things he wanted to, so in the end it was a rush just to get it recognizable as avian. While it is far from perfect, even Dune and his perfectionism would admit it’s not without character.
Anyway, it isn’t like he had the money for a proper gift.
Dune tries not to look too closely at the stallion’s reaction. He heard it didn’t look good to care too much. He finds himself eying the snowy landscape. It was pretty, but, “I hate this stuff.” He gestures to the vast whiteness, nose curls briefly in distaste. He’s cold, and damp, and his date is a dude. Not just any dude- the Solterran champion of battle.
Perhaps, the thought occurs to him only then, a rich dude.
For the first time that evening he smiles, a true smile. Charming, when he wanted to be. Even when it made him feel like dirt. “I’m Dune.”
