I was a poor boy; you were a bright light
I was a sinner and you were a snake
He had been in foul mood the first time that they had met.
The circumstances had not made it much better—surrounded by angry, biting women who loved nothing more than stoking his fury (although he had done far worse). Today, his mood is not much better. Being forced back to life after being ripped from it has a way of doing that to a soul—turning it even darker.
He has at least come to terms with the fact that he has not yet successfully avoided life and does not bristle with fury whenever he opens his eyes in the morning. However, that does change the fact that he still stiffens with surprise in the morning, feels that ache of frustration and disappointment in his throat.
The only thing he can do is keep moving, he thinks. Even though he continues to see Sylva as his home—and, somewhere, there is a starry woman who will surely want an explanation from him—he doesn’t spend his days haunting her borders. Instead he keeps moving, traveling through the lands, to the corners.
Today, it brings him to the meadow.
The autumn air is cool but not yet bitter with the bite of winter and he finds that he enjoys it, comforted by the temperature that soothes. He continues walking forward until he catches a glimpse of a familiar coat, the wild mare standing with her wings extended, her eyes looking upward. She looks peaceful.
He wonders how anyone feels that way.
Throat tight, he wanders close, painfully aware of the tension of their last meeting. His face remains stony, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he swallows, before looking upward with her.
“Fancy a fly?”
Perhaps this was something they could see eye-to-eye on, he thinks.
Perhaps he would not ruin it instantly if he could not talk.
shook like some old souls when our bones broke
swallowed the sickness, a fever, a flame
