and horror in the halls of stone
Jahin does not have the power to speak with the dead but he sees ghosts these days.
Seraphina, Makeda, Avdotya, Orestes. Only Makeda is truly gone but it doesn’t stop him from seeing the faces of the others. He sees them in the marketplace; a glimpse of golden hair and shimmering tattoos. Orestes? Nay, only the play of sunlight on someone far too ordinary and mundane to be the magnificent Orestes.
He sees Makeda often; triggered by black hair and the perfume of jasmine, sweat, and sand. But she appears less and less to him. Like his fading Davke tattoos, Makeda too fades like a mirage in the heat. He doesn’t want to forget her. He knows part of him never will, that she will always be there, somewhere...but it becomes harder and harder to summon her back. It’s only fitting--she never really gave him the time of day even when she was living, why would she as a ghost?
As for Avdotya, she does not have to be among the dead to haunt him. The Davke leader manifests in every shadow, every corner, and every moment that Jahin ever doubts his decision to leave his people. Her ghost stalks him like a wild beast, hungry and patient. He doesn’t doubt her wrath will follow him until the day he dies.
When he stares into the golden eyes of another ghost, he is transfixed. He does not see the blood red war paint, the gold, or the scars until later. He sees the vastness of the desert and the heat of the Solterran sun. He hears war drums in the distance as the sun sets and the moon rises. He feels the wind and heat scraping across his skin like sandpaper. Davke, the wind whispers. Deep in his bones he feels the thunder of hoofbeats beating across the desert in the night.
He blinks and the vision of his former life is gone. He stares at her, noticing the gold, the scars, and the paint. The lovely smile does not quite meet the intensity of her eyes. She seems amused as she comments on his fascination with the leather journals. Yes, it does seem rather foolish. He’s embarrassed but he is not sure of which he is more ashamed of: the fact he cannot read and write or his desire to learn. She steps closer. Her proud wings unfurl, feathers glistening and emanating a soft glow in the sunlight.
“Amaunet,” he says softly. He brushes her shoulder with his lips in greeting. Her skin is hot but then it is fitting. She has always been a creature of fire. Sahar peers curiously over Jahin, tongue flickering in a silent hiss. “So you are not a ghost.”
He does not know Amaunet well; she was always in and out of their way of life, possibly more free than any other Davke could ever boast. He does not remember a time when she ever permanently stayed or ever truly left the Davke. In the past he had wondered why Avdotya tolerated Amaunet splitting herself between two worlds. After all, Avdotya did not take kindly to Jahin’s time in the capitol and deemed it an unforgivable offense.
But Amaunet was different. He remembers the body Amaunet had dragged from the desert as a slender, somewhat unremarkable girl. He recalls the day clearly; the hush of his people and the permanent shock in the gypsy boy’s lifeless eyes. He had been a young warrior in his prime back then. Davke tradition or murder? Jahin feels as though the line is a little too blurred, a little too gray, but Amaunet was no longer forgettable and maybe that was her intention.
If he’s completely honest, Amaunet makes him uncomfortable.
“And what would you expect of me?”
J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
Seraphina, Makeda, Avdotya, Orestes. Only Makeda is truly gone but it doesn’t stop him from seeing the faces of the others. He sees them in the marketplace; a glimpse of golden hair and shimmering tattoos. Orestes? Nay, only the play of sunlight on someone far too ordinary and mundane to be the magnificent Orestes.
He sees Makeda often; triggered by black hair and the perfume of jasmine, sweat, and sand. But she appears less and less to him. Like his fading Davke tattoos, Makeda too fades like a mirage in the heat. He doesn’t want to forget her. He knows part of him never will, that she will always be there, somewhere...but it becomes harder and harder to summon her back. It’s only fitting--she never really gave him the time of day even when she was living, why would she as a ghost?
As for Avdotya, she does not have to be among the dead to haunt him. The Davke leader manifests in every shadow, every corner, and every moment that Jahin ever doubts his decision to leave his people. Her ghost stalks him like a wild beast, hungry and patient. He doesn’t doubt her wrath will follow him until the day he dies.
When he stares into the golden eyes of another ghost, he is transfixed. He does not see the blood red war paint, the gold, or the scars until later. He sees the vastness of the desert and the heat of the Solterran sun. He hears war drums in the distance as the sun sets and the moon rises. He feels the wind and heat scraping across his skin like sandpaper. Davke, the wind whispers. Deep in his bones he feels the thunder of hoofbeats beating across the desert in the night.
He blinks and the vision of his former life is gone. He stares at her, noticing the gold, the scars, and the paint. The lovely smile does not quite meet the intensity of her eyes. She seems amused as she comments on his fascination with the leather journals. Yes, it does seem rather foolish. He’s embarrassed but he is not sure of which he is more ashamed of: the fact he cannot read and write or his desire to learn. She steps closer. Her proud wings unfurl, feathers glistening and emanating a soft glow in the sunlight.
“Amaunet,” he says softly. He brushes her shoulder with his lips in greeting. Her skin is hot but then it is fitting. She has always been a creature of fire. Sahar peers curiously over Jahin, tongue flickering in a silent hiss. “So you are not a ghost.”
He does not know Amaunet well; she was always in and out of their way of life, possibly more free than any other Davke could ever boast. He does not remember a time when she ever permanently stayed or ever truly left the Davke. In the past he had wondered why Avdotya tolerated Amaunet splitting herself between two worlds. After all, Avdotya did not take kindly to Jahin’s time in the capitol and deemed it an unforgivable offense.
But Amaunet was different. He remembers the body Amaunet had dragged from the desert as a slender, somewhat unremarkable girl. He recalls the day clearly; the hush of his people and the permanent shock in the gypsy boy’s lifeless eyes. He had been a young warrior in his prime back then. Davke tradition or murder? Jahin feels as though the line is a little too blurred, a little too gray, but Amaunet was no longer forgettable and maybe that was her intention.
If he’s completely honest, Amaunet makes him uncomfortable.
“And what would you expect of me?”
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
@Amaunet
