IF YOU CATCH THE TRAIN TO NOWHERE, YOU'LL FIND THE STRANGEST MAN I'VE EVER MET. WHO CLAIMED HIS EARS WERE RINGING WITH THE SOUND OF HIS REGRET, BACK THEN TIME HAD NOT YET TAUGHT ME, REGRET WAS NOT THE SOUND I KNEW, SO I THOUGHT NOTHING MORE OF SILENCE WAS LEFT BY THINGS YOU DIDN'T DO.
It was a quiet, pleasant night, where the air was just cold enough to nip at noses and ears but it was not quite painful, not quite offensive, just chilly enough to frost the ground and fill the city with the scent of woodsmoke and roasting pecans. It was serenely, tranquilly quiet, as the Dusk Court often was.
At least, until the doorway of one of Tucson’s frequented taverns opened and the warm light poured out. Along with it came the muted chatter of the guests within, and Tucson’s far less muted—one might even say howling—protest. ”What’dya mean I was disrupting’ the peace’? Again?” Tucson crowed, audibly, as he was ushered out by none other than the owner herself, Maurice. She was a stern draft cross, with curved ram horns and grey coat dappled in green, who was taking none of his nonsense. ”Come again next week, when you’ve learned to behave yourself,” she chastised, and the door slammed behind him.
The warm atmosphere of the tavern was abruptly replaced by winter’’s pinching, prevalent fingers. Tucson shivered and shook himself out, to include his membranous wings, mumbling under his breath. ”S’me joint, that.” It wasn’t as though he had been the only incriminating figure! For the sake of the almighty gods and goddesses, those scoundrels had put him up to the task! Tucson should’ve known better, then rise to the jest of his fellow Dusk Court soldiers. It had been the music! The live band had picked something besides what might have been Courtly proper, and the soldiers had gone to hollering. Tucson couldn’t help but climb up on the table and dance, clumsily spilling the contents upon his compatriots, the ground, and possibly the barmaid.
He stood listening to the din inside for a moment, but the ruckus had calmed down significantly with his impromptu exit. It just wasn’t right, Tucson thought, that a tavern could kick him out for something as innocent as table dancing. Back home, you could shoot a man and still get served—
Tucson caught himself and attempted—successful or unsuccessful was yet to be decided—to somber his thoughts. I ain’t home, Tucson reminded himself. He was Courtly now, and Shane would have died laughing at the thought. Tucson glanced back at the tavern and then began to move down the street, swerving slightly, as he headed toward the next bar he could think of… turns out, however, one did not come readily to mind. This tavern was established close to the soldier’s quarters, and made quite a bit of profit of serving the young men and women…Ah, damn.
The stallion turned around, snuck through the alleyway to the back, and whistled at the cook through the rear door, which was open to let the heat of the kitchen escape. ”’Ey, Scotts, c’n ‘ya gimme a bottle of something? Ol’ Mrs. Killjoy kicked me out. Again.” The scrawny pegasus that tended the bread and stew cracked a wide grin. ”You’ve got to stop dancing on the table, Tucson, or she’s going to kick you out every week—”
”I d’n wanna hear it, Scotts, can’t bear it, it’s downright tragic, I tell ya, that you Dusk Court fellas can’t party in peace.” There was an opening on the other side of the kitchen, and as Tucson heard the owner’s voice, he ducked low in the alley behind a series of crates. He waited patiently for several minutes, before Scotts exited with a bundle of trash and a bottle of some type of whiskey or scotch. ”Now, you behave yourself, Tucson.”
”Aw, Scotts, y’know I’m nothin’but a’ sweetheart.” Tucson winked, and with a flourish of his draconic wings, he coiled his haunches and leaped from the alleyway. He heard Maurice cursing behind him, but it was too late. Tucson, with several beats of his wings, was sky-born.
It was not much later that he had secured himself a position on the cliffside. He opened the bottle telekinetically, and took a deep drink of the fire-water. It left him breathless, but Tucson enjoyed it, and that’s what he focused on—breathing in the clean sea air of the cliffside, and enjoying the warmth in his stomach that fought the chill of the night, and the pang of loneliness he felt deep within him.
Staring out at the sea, he knew he wasn’t looking west—but when the sun set, always westward, he would follow it home with his eyes. Now, though, the sky was dark and the night was quiet, and all his previous animation had left him still and thoughtful. Or, at least, as thoughtful was Tucson ever was—which was to say his mind was occupied with the burn of the drink, the sweet sea air, the feel of the chill, and… and was that a sound?
HE SAID HE HOPED THE SOUND OF NOTHING WAS THE WORST I HAD EVER HEARD. BECAUSE REGRET DRIVES YOU AS CRAZY AS THE TASTE OF SWALLOWED WORDS, "IT'S A STONE THROWN IN A WELL," HE MUSED, AND THIS I'VE NOT FORGOTTEN: "IT'S LISTENING ALL YOUR LIFE AND NEVER HEARING IT HIT THE BOTTOM."
All Messalina really wanted, as she stood there shivering out of her skin, was a drink. Piping hot, with enough steam to melt the snowflakes that had tangled — and froze — in her lashes.
Liquor, she thought ruefully, as she glared at the frost of her breath. Even liquor would suffice. She had never cared much for alcohol, but merely imagining the trail of fire a strong glass of spiced rum would give chased the chill away from her cheeks. If only, then, she could materialize a glass from thin air. What a talent that would be.
The Praistigia Cliffs — she was fairly certain that was where she was, though navigation had never been a strength of hers — was a far cry from the rolling meadows and old-wood forests of Delumine.
Yet, it was not near enough to Terrastella’s citadel. And if Messalina was fairly certain about her whereabouts, then she was too certain that if she continued on her way in this punishing cold, she would be little more than an ice sculpture by the time she set hoof in Asterion’s noble court.
There had to be a town nearby. An inn, with warm drink and a warmer bed, she prayed, burrowing deeper into the meager cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
Everything had gone according to her meticulous plans, as they ought to have — until the snowstorm had blown in like a tempest from the east. In a stroke of luck, the girl had managed to find a cave tucked into a crevice of the cliff face, and had huddled inside to shiver miserably until the blizzard had calmed.
Sighing, Messalina wondered if the scrolls she was going to collect from Terrastella’s library was worth all this shivering. Until she clicked her tongue and reminded herself, eyes slitting at her own selfishness, that the healing scrolls were invaluable assets to the Dawn Court’s archives.
Especially in such a period of festering unrest.
Absently, she patted the bundle of leather-bound scrolls tucked in a satchel slung across her chest. Knowledge for knowledge — for weeks she had corresponded with Terrastella’s head librarian to set up the exchange. Almost every morning Messalina had woken to a dove cooing on her windowsill, a curl of parchment tied to its outstretched leg. She had responded in kind with doves of her own — as snow white as her pelt.
Snow. The very word soured in her mouth. Tiredly, the girl summoned the will to peek her head out from the warmth of her cloak and scan the gloom for pinpricks of light. There had to be a town nearby. And then, when she narrowed her eyes a bit, she saw it.
In the distance, a shadow pulled away from the sky. A winged silhouette, large and dark and still against the backdrop of celestial sky. Her heart leapt with renewed hope when she spotted him. Faster and faster her stride became, until she was nearly trotting to the stranger's side.
Halting a polite distance away, Messalina smoothed down her windblown braids and cleared her throat.
“Good evening, sir. You are the first face I have seen this whole day — it is a welcome sight.” When she peered into his warm brown gaze, she dipped her crown to him in a courteous nod. “Do you come from a town near here?”
because regret drives you as crazy as the taste of swallowed words
T
ucson was surprised—but pleased—to see a stranger, and one he certainly didn’t recognise. They materialised from the cold night seeming, perhaps, just a bit flustered. It was with a sweeping glance that he assessed her and her possessions, primarily the satchel. He took note of the way she carried herself, even through the warm intoxication that spread through him. Tucson liked to call that the walk of Courtly purpose.
On second thought, maybe she was just freezing her ass off. That seemed plausible. His ears perked in her direction and his attention immediately abandoned the cliffside and notions of the west in favour for her agreeable face and… Not that Courtly proper bullshit. ”Aw, darlin’, no need for that nonsense. I ain’t no sir, jus’ Tucson.” He dipped his head to lessen the sting of the words—he had found some people in these parts were sensitive to such comments—and offered a broad, warm smile. It was the ease of a smile from one who, as a boy, knew just how handsome it made his face. Tucson had long ago learned that people liked him more when he smiled, and ever since he smiled at every opportunity.
”Now, if only y’had the wings. There’s just isn’t much in way of towns hereabouts—‘cept for a, uh, soldiers’ output, a little ways off. The Court isn’t too far, but flyin’ sure does make it faster. Yer choice though, darlin’.” Tucson’s tone was light—downright amiable, even. His grand wings folded tighter, neater, against his frame with a rustle—and in the brightness of the night, against the reflection of the snow, their hints of gold were just barely discernible. But only in the way the membranous folds bent the light, turning it into a nearly mystic suggestion. ”I g’some whiskey to keep it from gettin’ too nippy. I dunno if yer the drinkin’ type, though.” He would have winked, if not for the darkness. Nevertheless, he fixed her with another one of his glances, the sort of glance that took in everything all at once.
She was pretty, in that sophisticated, nice girl sort of way. Pretty, in her refined, aristocratic features and her pleasant coloring. There was a rose in her hair and that, to Tucson, seemed like the sort of simple extravagance that marked Novus as something entirely different from what he had been accustomed his entire life. But in a strange way, he liked it. Tucson began to turn, a little reluctantly, from the cliffside… but thinking differently, he tucked his shoulder and, rather than abandon it, rolled off the edge.
She seemed too serious.
He hoped that woke her up. Tucson was plummeting, but the heart-in-the-throat sensation of the fall had long-since left him. He twisted his body midair and with a sudden twitch of his muscles, threw out his wings—simultaneously, with a loud, high-pitched call that went something like yee-yeee-yeeee! His wings immediately caught the air, slowed his descent, and with a tuck of his left shoulder and dip of the left wing, he turned and began to ascend up the cliffside in a series of violent flaps. ”Don’t mind me,” he asserted, as he landed elegantly beside her, eyes alight with mischief. ”Y’ve decided where y’wanna go? Soldier's camp, or the Court?” Either way, without further invitation Tucson had begun to walk—the direction to each was similar, from the cliffside.
Tucson was as giddy as a school-child at the prospect of some new conversation; and there was always some amusement to be had from playing with the sentiments of those Courtly folk, with all their refinement and politeness. But, after the little cliff-stunt, he decided he ought to be on his best behaviour for at least a few more minutes. And so, he forced himself to somber, and bite his stream of commentary off, for now. He was incredibly intrigued, however, by her satchel in addition to her sudden appearance in the night.
@Messalina | "speaks" | notes: ahah... i'm still feeling him out c: BUT I AM ALSO VERY EXCITED TO THREAD WITH YOU <3 i love her already!
Tucson. The stranger’s name — and his accent, though to which corner of the earth it originated from Messalina had not a clue — took her by surprise.
Kept busy by her duties in Delumine’s citadel day in and day out, she barely had the chance to meet anyone, much less someone as utterly foreign as he. She had never met a man like him, with his drawling tongue and roguish, freely given smile, even in Algernon.
Nevertheless, she returned his smile (if a bit numbly; her face could barely move) and resisted the urge to curtsy. He didn’t seem the type that welcomed extravagant mannerisms, and she surely wasn’t the type to push it down another’s throat. Secretly, though she would never admit it to herself most days, Messalina found the stiff formality she had been raised on more and more draining by the day.
“Now, if only y’had the wings. There’s just isn’t much in way of towns hereabouts—‘cept for a, uh, soldiers’ output, a little ways off. The Court isn’t too far, but flyin’ sure does make it faster. Yer choice though, darlin’.”
She curled ever further into the scant warmth of her thin cloak as she considered his offer. The Court seemed like the most rational choice whichever way she thought about it. The idea of spending a night in a soldier’s output, alone and much too vulnerable for her liking, worried her. But the cold… she couldn’t feel her hooves. The winters in Algernon had been harsh enough for even Mother to warn Messalina of the dangers of being caught in a snowstorm.
The frostbite, the eventual disorientation. The feeling of fire, before everything dulled and died and the body sank into eternal sleep.
Messalina bit her lip and stole a glance at Tucson through her lashes, gazing broodingly at his much too friendly smile. Yet, he didn’t seem like he could hide nefarious intentions behind those bright brown eyes, and what he said did make perfect sense.
She had two choices: freeze to death on her trek to the Court, or follow the man warily to the soldier’s output. When she considered it that way, it could not have been an easier choice.
“Soldier’s output it is then, Tucson.” She rarely addressed anyone by their name so early into an acquaintance, but he had requested it of her, and Messalina would be as obliging as she needed to be. Hesitantly, she added: “I hope it is near — I can barely feel my limbs. If I had not run into you...”
Relief showed too clearly on her features when he offered her the flask. She raised her brow at him before taking it and raising it to her lips without hesitation. She swallowed the liquor in eager gulps, relishing the fire as it spread down her throat and flushed through her shivering body. Careful not to drink too much, out of politeness and more so out of caution, Messalina handed the whiskey back to him with a grateful nod.
“Thank you. And I might not look it, but I can handle my liquor very well.” A glittering lie — already she could feel the slight wooziness of the whiskey saturating her blood — but what else could she say? That she would faint like a wet behind the ears girl-child? She could handle liquor, in limited amounts.
And it had chased the cold away like magic, if only for a moment.
When the man threw himself off the cliff without so much as a warning then, Messalina's first horrific thought was that she had drank too much of the whiskey. Her horror only grew when she found that her step did not wobble, and her head did not ache, when she ran to the edge of the rock.
“Sir!” she shrieked, only to stare open-mouthed when she saw his wings flick open mid-fall. His triumphant yips echoed up towards her, halfway drowned by the howling of the wind.
Within the space of a heartbeat, he landed jovially besides her, perfectly unharmed. Her heart thundered in her chest as she calmed her fraying nerves. “Don’t mind me,” he said, slick as a poetry-spouting bard, and Messalina burst into astonished laughter.
Tears formed in her eyes, and she flicked them away before they could freeze. “Were you not afraid?” She had been shocked beyond the point of caring, and the warmth of the liquor loosened her tongue. “What a display. I have never seen anyone do that before.” Vaguely, Messalina wondered if it was wise following someone who could throw themselves down a snowbank quicker than she could blink. It was disarming, and on any other night she would have thought the entire situation preposterous.
“Y’ve decided where y’wanna go? Soldier's camp, or the Court?”
“Soldier’s camp,” she nodded. She felt his eyes settle on her satchel curiously, though he did not ask about it even when she saw the question burned into his eyes as clear as day. As they made for the camp, her trailing a few steps behind despite their matched height, she realized that she had never introduced herself.
“My name is Messalina. I come from the Dawn Court, and was on my way to Terrastella before this terrible blizzard blew in.”
because regret drives you as crazy as the taste of swallowed words
D
arlin', tell me you’re gettin’ cold feet?” Tucson’s smile is wry. He cannot help it, despite her shivering, and the way the chill sinks into him, too. He goes on to say: "Well, Darlin’, you did run inta’me, so ain’t no sense in playin’ games a’ “what if”, ain’t no sense in it at all.”.
The cowboy’s second comment brings to mind, abruptly, his mother—scolding him for his lackadaisical aura toward just about everything. You were lost in the woods for two days, Tuc, you can’t just laugh and joke about that! But he had. And he always would. Tucson just doesn’t see the point in torturing himself with the what ifs, what if it had gone wrong? Well, he’d be dead, and the what if still wouldn’t matter. “My ma used to say I don’t take things seriously enough.”
In a bizarre way, she almost reminds him of his mother. That may have been the reason he offers such a personal, unnecessary comment. Either way, he does not dwell on it for long, allowing his mind to draw the easy conclusions. Perhaps it is her pale colour, or her gentle politeness. More than that: it might be the way she takes the flask, or shrieks at his fall.
What is very unlike his mother, is the way she laughs at his antics as he lands beside her. Tucson laughs then, too, loud and boisterously. Were you afraid? He can still feel the rush of wind against his skin. He can still feel the earth dropping out from beneath him, the openness of his wings. And he laughs again. “Nah, just alive.”
What he doesn’t say: it takes practice. Tucson refuses to acknowledge fear, for many things. And fear of death, or falling? It was not among his list of things to be wary of. No. His fears were far more intimate. Instead his fears resound when he returns to empty rooms, in the dark, and hears his own thoughts turn about themselves like rabid wolves: it’s your fault, your fault, your fault—
He is afraid of his own silence.
Tucson slows for her; casts a glance over his shoulder for her. It begins to snow again, wet, heavy flurries. But they are slow, and unthreatening. This fact doesn’t prevent Tucson from extending one of his large wings above her, so as to keep the wind and wet at bay. It isn’t that he is immune to the coldness—perhaps just more accustomed. How many winter nights had he trudged through a blizzard alongside Shane, just hoping they could find shelter in time? This, in comparison, seems relatively mild. “Pleasure to meet’ya, Miss Messalina. If I'ad a hat, I’d tip it’t’ya. Sorry ‘bout y’gettin’ caught in th’storm, but I ain’t sorry it’s let us meet.” He might have thrown a wink in, if he were just a little younger, or a little more familiar with the foreign land.
Already, he can see the light of the soldier’s output reflecting off the falling snow and low-hanging clouds. The firelight seems warm, inviting, in comparison to the winter chill. He asks, unable to curb his curiosity, “An' what brings y’ta all’th'way Terrastella in wintertime?” By now, they are close enough to the output Tucson discerns a pathway through the snow. He leads her to it, following the path of what must have been one of the poor sentries looping along the outside of the output, and then through, during their routine route. “More whiskey?”
@Messalina | "speaks" | notes: this took soooo long i'm sorry!
