Beside the firelight, Azrael glows. He stands like a silent beacon among the partygoers, watching as the world continued spinning, not taking part, simply existing. There is noise all around him. There are dancers twirling with brightly colored scarves which matched the hue of flame. Drinks flowed freely here, and he nurses one pensively, letting the buzz of it wash him with a warmth that didn’t quite reach his soul. For there is a restlessness in the man, a piece of him torn away, still raw from the hurt. Jealousy is not a hue the shed-star wears well.
He wants to lose himself in the energy of the night, but the stars call to his restless soul instead. So, the stallion turns to leave, but finds himself drawn to the shadows. Just beyond the din of the night, he finds Katniss, asleep and dreaming. Her eyes are squeezed tight, her lips pursed as if struggling, and a low moan of pain escapes her. “Shhh…” he comforts her sleeping form, casting his light over her, trying to shield her from the darkness, even as his magic reached to follow, finding her torn somewhere between reality and a dream.
Closing his eyes, the dreamwalker finds himself beside her now, standing by the creekbed in a place meant for only lovers. When he opens them once more, he sees a world of quiet beauty. The sun hangs low in the sky, dusk overtaking day as fireflies dance along the water’s edges. There is a quiet hush of river against rock, curtains of willow strung out like a veil, which he peels back to step through, into this world her mind has built.
“Katniss?” His voice hangs like a question, trying to break through her trance – for though he does not know the mare, he knows the look upon her face. He knows the love etched in every line as she looks at her fallen lover, the confusion and the pain as she mourns for what might have been.
Metaphor beckons her closer, chocolate eyes warm with affection as watches her, watching him. “Katniss…” her name sounds again, but this time it is the chestnut’s rich tones, honey-sweet and longing. “It is beautiful here… almost as beautiful as you.” Those words, the words he spoke that night, ring truer than ever as he reaches for his lover. But she hesitates before stepping closer, one step – then two. “You are not alive… you can’t be.” Her assurances draw confusion to Metaphor's brow as he reaches for her, lips finding the crest of her neck, warm and real.
“He is alive, in this world… it is a world of your choosing, a place for only the two of you. A place of peace and healing…” Azrael’s words encourage her, even as he steps back through the greenery to give the two their privacy, feeling like he intruded on a private moment. But the shed-star is never far, ready to stand beside her, should this world become a darker and more dangerous place.
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