| Perhaps Cera's entrance merits more attention, a deeper regard from the copper child, but she is quickly drawn away from it and back to the boy's face. She regrets her question, almost- what right had she to pry at such wounds? What good does she think to do? She wants to step closer, to take him into her warm embrace and quiet the sorrow which mars his eyes. Her heart aches to make him whole, and as his whisper cracks the air she feels it shatter, fragment and burn.
She wants to say more, to step in and fill the void left by the sorrow of the boy's voice, but the moment is swept away by golden wings and a gilded voice too eloquent for the fire dancer to mimic. Cera is quick to fill the silence, his quiet tenor wrought with pain, and the Fire Dancer feels ire swirl with compassion in her chest, curious aggravation rising behind her eyes.
She listens to him, uncomfortable beneath the onslaught of his confession- can't he see that this is all wrong, not what she intended at all? Cera's tale is mournful, another lonely, another lost, a child abandoned like so many others and left to grow too soon to a man. Can't the Golden Prince understand that such tales are the last thing Rhoa needs? He spins a song of personal sorrow, of love and loss and unfulfilled misery, wrapping it up in an unsatisfying bow which stank of condescension and answered none of the roused appall. Nobody loves you, life will forever be cruel is the message left in the wake of his words, and the girl feels ill as she watches them fly from honeyed lips to impressionable ears.
Even the blunt-tongued fire child would not whisper such things to a new-formed foal. She feels depressed by the end of his tirade, and when he smiles at her all she can offer is a stoic expression which hides her dismay. She cannot help but feel some guilt, for asking the question instigating this onslaught; she wants to shudder and disappear, but now more than ever knows she cannot. She wants to glare daggers into the golden boy's pelt, to rip across his chest with words of flame. She holds her tongue for the sake of the child, a rare show of restraint from the spitfire girl.
But without her anger, she knows not what to say. Natraj comes quickly to her aid, pressing himself against the boy's small hooves, grinning and yipping in a valiant attempt to lighten the mood. The girl smiles weakly at her noble brother, grateful for his ever buoyant mood, and swallows before turning onyx gaze back on the boy, the faint smile burning brighter as she funnels her fury into something more useful, a distraction away from Cera's disturbing, depressing rant.
"We should walk the width of the pond," she softly declares, alto voice firm. "See if we can't spot any vagrants." It is one of very few attempts at humor from the somber child, but for the blazing boy she is willing to try anything, if only it will ease the tension created by her foolish questioned, her misplaced good will.
THE FIREDANCER
for it was I who walked among the falling stars, and did not burn | |
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