ira
His father had always wanted him to be a soldier. He had said, again and again, soldiers were princes with honor. They belonged to their country, body and soul, and not other occupation could ever near that honor.
Regarding the stranger—Ira recognizes him, of course, as he recognizes anyone who frequents Denocte, without knowing their name, only their demeanor—Ira is gladdened that he chose a different path. He cannot explain why Renwick evokes this gladness. So I am, lad. Ira cannot help the subtle arch of his brows at the term; he is not so quick to smile as the gilded man.
I wanted to see the World, says the soldier.
Ira listens, intently, to the voice that weaves itself into the Denoctian night as if it belongs. That weaves into the moonlight and laughing fountain, and the chorus of singing somewhere in the night; perhaps in the tavern, just down the street. Ira listens and paints the image in his own mind, seeing the world the soldier describes. Only, Ira sees it through the creatures of each culture; through pygmy dragons and sandwyrms and the mystic elk of Viride. Ira sees the World not in pretty maids and handsome lords and roguish ruffians; but in woods so dense they choke the sky, and a river that rushes with a fierceness that becomes violent, and a sun that melts the earth to gold.
He smiles, a private smile. “I don’t know if I believe your reason,” he says, a little coyly, to the soldier. And Ira says this because, at the end of the day, a hunter does not hunt unless they like the blood.
(And no matter what he will say in polite society, no matter what he will go to sleep telling himself, Ira loves the sport of his occupation. He wonders, briefly, if soldiering can be any different).
When Ira speaks, he leans just a bit closer; conspiratorially. I wanted to be more, and so I am, says the soldier, with a wink.
The unicorn spends a moment wondering what the other views him as; naive, perhaps. Ira cannot blame him. His face is so young; a trait Ira neither enjoys nor detests, but only recognizes in a detached sort of way. And his face is young because he is young.
(Ira has always found youth to be subjective to experience; and he, no matter how young, has experienced much).
It makes him feel older. He pressed forward from where he had been leaning against the intricate stonework of the fountain, his leonine tail dropping from the lip. “No,” Ira says. “I’ve seen enough of the world to know I like it here.”
He smiles again; his expression is far from the confident, charming expression of Renwick. No. Ira’s smile is a mirror of a crescent moon; as sharp as a Cheshire’s.
“I only wanted to know for the sake of knowing.” Ira would never be a soldier. He never wanted to be. “I wager I could show you more of the World, and the people in it, by taking you into the woods.”
Neither a threat, nor a dare, nor a challenge, but some mix of the three. People are only true before two things. Their gods, and their wilds.
Nothing else.
Not even themselves.
@Renwick / speaks / notes
