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She is surprised by the concern in the tall man's voice, a gruffly exuded warning of caution. Surprised, but not distracted for more than an instant, a fleeting flicker of eyes and nostril flare. She wonders at his dragon, small and emerald and so unlike her aunt's, wonders if she is cheerful like Aikath with a joyous whistle and- but she snaps back to the moment as her voice starts slipping, the magic growing restless in the folds of her throat, forming a tight ball of shocking light and violent health. Chestnut filly grits her teeth, a look of concentration and perhaps constipation settling on the moon-slashed face as she wills the magic to listen, wills it to behave and flow through her, out into the dun.
She nearly balks at his scream, the rage and agony of the dead man's voice. Eyes clench shut against the world as she pushes on, wills her voice not to falter, her throat not to close. Dark and seldom used tones weave a fragile mimic of what Lena sang that day, cautious imitation and bold, deep accents that make it her own- she falls into it, spiraling, and does not see the ink flow away, the contortion and rebirth and struggle of demon and man.
It is the thud of his body that jolts her back, eyes springing open and voice abruptly still. Copper girl returns to the world to find Paladin collapsed and the black stud her guard, tall form between them and scent heavy on her nostrils. It makes her shudder, though with what emotion she does not know- she cannot remember the last time a stallion was so close, the last time anyone was so close, and for a hairline of a second wants to press herself against him and feel his male heat.
Then the magic subsides, and the desire with it. Suddenly tired, the filly stumbles forward, edging around the tall black stud on shaky legs. She wants to see Paladin, confirm he is alright, ease the anxiety that prickles at her poll. Gold limbs inch around her midnight guard, circling to reach the fallen foe where he lies so peaceful, a warm skeleton of the beast who she had faces mere minutes - or was it hours? - before. Tandavi blinks her soft relief, lowering her face to breathe on him, an act of comfort once offered by her dam. She does not speak, for what little voice she had has been offered to him already, but stares with hope dark in her eyes, willing him to smile, to prove she has done well.
THE FIREDANCER
for it was I who walked among the falling stars, and did not burn
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