She stared into the fire, prodding the coals dispassionaly. Normally stories would dance, their shape burning in the flames. But tonight, all she saw was was the ghostly orange. She couldn’t even feel its heat, only the irritating tickle of an errant hair. A gentle hand reached out, but paused before reaching her shoulder. She wished it would push through the hesitancy, the stiff silence. She longed to take decisive action, even if it was just a brief touch, as human as brushing away a loose strand of hair.
She heard the frantic rhythm of hooves measured into a trot. It punctured the thick darkness, but in doing so, only forced it closer. “Meta!” She exclaimed. She stood, turning away from the fire. The sharp movement was muffled by the dull night. “Ieldant daetda kiyu.” Her voice was firm, smooth and clear, yet it held the somber import of a whisper. In a small movement, a simple instinctual flex of her toes, she tested the dust underneath. She felt the weight of each moving particle. “Glah.” She finished, letting the single syllable fall soft.
The rider dismounted. She could barely force the darkness to take the shape of a moving figure. The fire soon revealed her imagined edges, but they were no more defined. FInally, The light illuminated the flat features of a hawkish face. It was unsettlingly two dimensional without the moon. “Mendua” the newcomer muttered. His voice was rich, warmer the the light.
“Alglaya achramo teri! Eshnya hami toro kelhar mevir ebo sa teri teri!” This time she spoke in a true whisper, but the urgency, the intimacy revealed more rough edges. Her words tore at the darkness, rather then puncturing it with the perfect rhythm of hooves or smooth words. He stepped closer. She could feel his roundness; she didn’t need to see it. She hoped he would do nothing but move silently to her side and hold back her hair as she stared into the fire.
She sighed. Without even the foundation of a whisper, he stated: “Achran.” She would have to find a piece of string to keep her hair from her face. War would require all their hands, toes, and eyes.
She heard the frantic rhythm of hooves measured into a trot. It punctured the thick darkness, but in doing so, only forced it closer. “Meta!” She exclaimed. She stood, turning away from the fire. The sharp movement was muffled by the dull night. “Ieldant daetda kiyu.” Her voice was firm, smooth and clear, yet it held the somber import of a whisper. In a small movement, a simple instinctual flex of her toes, she tested the dust underneath. She felt the weight of each moving particle. “Glah.” She finished, letting the single syllable fall soft.
The rider dismounted. She could barely force the darkness to take the shape of a moving figure. The fire soon revealed her imagined edges, but they were no more defined. FInally, The light illuminated the flat features of a hawkish face. It was unsettlingly two dimensional without the moon. “Mendua” the newcomer muttered. His voice was rich, warmer the the light.
“Alglaya achramo teri! Eshnya hami toro kelhar mevir ebo sa teri teri!” This time she spoke in a true whisper, but the urgency, the intimacy revealed more rough edges. Her words tore at the darkness, rather then puncturing it with the perfect rhythm of hooves or smooth words. He stepped closer. She could feel his roundness; she didn’t need to see it. She hoped he would do nothing but move silently to her side and hold back her hair as she stared into the fire.
She sighed. Without even the foundation of a whisper, he stated: “Achran.” She would have to find a piece of string to keep her hair from her face. War would require all their hands, toes, and eyes.
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