“You can never be sure of your way.”
The snow’s so thick
And the ice so slick.
With your life you will surely pay.
-------
The swan boy arrives upon the crest of autumn with winter nipping at his tail. The Winter Court had called him back, a brief and tantalizing whisper that Polunin could not resist. Yet the Court of ice and snow would never hold the thrall it once had for the ebony creature of swan wings and wild heart.
His black eyes are beads as they blink into the black of the night. He is shadow here, Calligo painting him in elegant lines that sprawl and crawl their way across the stone walls of the keep.
His feet are a hiss that never parts his lips, a phantom of his warning cry. He seeks solitude but he will not be granted this. Not here, not now. The Court is awash in revelry, the song of the night too much for its inhabitants to resist. The night shivers with merriment, the skies and its stars dancing to the songs far, far below.
The swan skirts the party, clinging to the walls of the keep where the only dances are the shadows that break and ripple between fiery torches. There is a sound in the dark, a scuff of feet that rush too close, too fast beside him. Like a serpent loosed his neck uncoils, teeth snapping the hot air where his compatriot was scant moments before. His tongue still bears their taste and it makes his lip curl.
“Watch your step.” It is a warning hiss from red, red lips. Polunin is the warning snap and hiss of a swan so riled, so agitated. This merriment is not for him, yet here he is amidst the throng and his skin itches, his nape arches, his teeth clack.
His neck curls back, a serpent set to strike once again.
-- Anyone is welcome.
