The light that spreads languidly over the ruined shrines, the lava and the vastness beyond is irrevocable, illuminating all in its path, throwing brilliant prisms into the long awaited morning. Like glowing snakes it slithers over rock and water alike, bouncing, reflecting, exploding in volleys of delicate, wild light. Skywalker, like Kahlua, squints at the unspeakable beauty; for a moment he is rendered speechless. He cannot shield himself against this spectacle and finds that in whichever way he attempts to deny it, he cannot help but to acknowledge the whimsical flutter in his chest, that shallow and short-lived exhalation of joy. For a long moment he remains quiet and unmoving, admitting inwardly that the warmth of the sun is a pleasure on his crooked nose. The light reflects in his wintry eyes, all glowing sapphire and a softness that has not been present before. He smiles.

That smile, however, wrinkles up and dies – withered and gaunt on his sooty lips, a wretched ghost in the sun – as she touches him. He cringes away from the mare and turns toward her with a hard, accusing stare the only thing to offer in sacrifice of the rising sun. Skywalker is about to scold her, or lash out even, when he remembers the company and that aggravating feebleness of her mind. Of course she cannot know how short her shadow of influence is and he lets the touch pass him by, un-assaulted. “Seems like it,” his answer is shrouded in a heavy sigh as he looks at her dance about in the most inane of ways. Of course.

What on earth has he, proud warrior and incontestable conqueror, done to deserve the company of fools? From what he can remember he has abstained from the most grievous of sins, lest there would be a punishment in the league of this later on. So much for prudence, he thinks.

And yet, he cannot find the loathing he bears for everyone but himself (or rather, himself especially) when he stands beside her; the unlikely duo engorged by light and filigreed by that particular freshness that always heralds a new day. There simply is something about her – regardless of the amphora of loathsome qualities that he has found in the mare – that leaves him hopelessly filled with pity and a slight glimmer of older-brotherly soberness. How quaint.

So he finally moves, stepping past the jittery mare and in the direction of the shrines. He looks at her and nods, impatiently and perhaps that impatience is great enough to harness a morsel of fondness for the silly mare? “What are you waiting for, we’re here to see the gods and not the sunrise, am I correct?”

And then he adds, “how many warriors,” the second question a lot less hesitant than the first.

S K Y W A L K E R.

Kahlua