“Then take me with you, so I can meet your warriors,” he calls into the black flurry of tail that explodes ahead of him. As she detaches herself from his presence and falls into a brisk canter, he has no choice but to follow, leaping bravely into a long, winsome momentum; all hot blood and sinewy muscle bursting into an elegant canter. Skywalker rarely extends himself to a pace quicker than a languid trot, as the mere length of his strides is enough to carry him forth, with the same assurance as a swelling tide. And yet, when he does, his step is full of flair and pride, the stygian wraith is an elegant thing, his gait a careful juxtaposition of pomp and circumstance, precision and raw, unbridled strength. “If the gods will speak to us, we might as well bring our fortune back to your home,” the drum of his hooves accompanying his voice, making it seem, for Skywalker, impossibly hopeful. He pauses, heaves himself onwards, eager to keep in tandem with her surprisingly efficient gait and adds, “you’ve taken me here, I might as well follow you to your doorstep.” His voice may be a dulled knife, but this rare courtesy that he suggests is absurdly unlike him.

Kahlua might not know it – swathed in the pinks and golds of dawn that climbs assuredly into the sky, glittering in the shallow waterways and silvering the black, ruin of volcanic stone – but something in her gregarious disposition throws the stallion in and out of character. In the company of the impossibly cheerful mare he finds himself flung between the usual cynicism and arrogance that he is so well accustomed to, and a stranger, more tolerant part of him, childlike and impossibly curious. Kahlua, in short, seems to make him (if only momentarily) revert to the bright-eyed boy he once was. How abominable!

The realization sours his face once again; as he thinks that being a seneschal of the joyous must be a devastatingly tiresome think to take upon oneself. In that sense, he admits with great reluctance, the mare of black and white motley is admirable and deserves at least a little leeway. Kahlua, bright as the immaculate sunrise, is as ruinous to Skywalker as Deimos of the basin is to life itself. The seed of a chuckle roots itself in the dark soil of Skywalker as he imagines Kahlua, a nefarious engine of doom and destruction. Ridiculous.

She stops, and he follows suit, spending a moment with his lips curved into the expression of soft astonishment. His blue eyes widen and the pristine sunlight reflects dully in their villainous depths. Truly, an astonishing sight – and it is not lost upon even the most hardened of warriors. His company lowers her head in a bow and again, Skywalker follows her example. He is at a loss here, something he does willingly admit despite his arrogance; best let the mare keep leading the way. Yet, he is soon to find out that she is just as unknowing as him, when he catches her faint, and strangely grave whisper. Glancing over at Kahlua, the stallion immediately identifies that fearful expression, childish and pure, full of honesty. And it is that selfsame look that goads him into extending himself unto her, nudging her shoulder – a gesture full of something as rare as encouragement. They are friends, he suddenly decides without really understanding the meaning of the word – it twists around uncertainly in his head, misplaced and foreign. Ugly.

Vaguely he recalls her saying something about the goddess of the moon and he looks at the purple trinket around her neck, before raising his ugly head into the gossamer light and calling, hesitantly, disbelievingly, into the crisp morning air.

“Goddess of the Moon, mistress of wind and darkness, we are come to pay our respects and humbly ask for your presence.”

He does not know what he is doing, for the first time in his life.

S K Y W A L K E R.

Kahlua