He follows her, wearing sullen silence on his thin lips, as if he were a spoiled boy, and in a certain sense he still is. Like a ghost trailing her singsong voice he moves at her heels and from the look of it he might as well be her prisoner, all dragging feet and pinned ears. The soft rustle as they move, however, is pleasant – soon he finds himself almost lulled to sleep. But his limbs move, mechanically and obediently and the black stallion remains in tow; what a quaint couple they are!

He listens halfheartedly as she prattles on about trivialities and nonsense, careful to keep her brisk pace but careless of whatever valuable information that might be nestled in between vowels and syllables. Perhaps he is at fault for it, perhaps he should take care to gather whatever information he can about the other herds, but Skywalker finds himself wearied to the point of exhaustion. Besides, he is a warrior and not a spy; it is not in his nature to eavesdrop and entertain himself with simple gossip. What more is, he holds on to his belief that no one would confide secrets of gravity to such a loose-jawed mare. And yet, he contradicts his doubts, making a feeble attempt as she mentions her home: “you must come from a powerful home then, to strive for such impossibilities as peace and equality in times like these,” he throws the bait as he lowers his head and carefully lifts his slender legs to avoid some gnarled roots pulling close to the sky. Maybe she will take it?

They pass in the shadow of the mountain and he decides to remain silent as they travel through its cold grasp; something is amiss, he immediately thinks and glances into the dark. Somehow the night seems to deepen and intensify and the heavy blanket of darkness that has ruled them for what seems like an eternity grows more compact, more cumbersome. The night contracts and it’s hard to breathe. Even though the skies are clear and the air is fresh and light and invigorating – something is wrong. He looks back at Kahlua, wondering if she too can sense that something is out of place.

Apparently not.

Then the sun rises, it’s light so pale, delicate and above all long overdue, that it seems like poison. As the first hazy strands of light tame the ever-black skies, Skywalker stops and blinks, uncertain if this is a nightmare or a whimsical chimaera. He shakes his head in disbelief.

Then the sun rises.

Skywalker, untrue to his character, welcomes it with a meek smile. Never mind that his wintry eyes are so unused to the precious light that he must squint.

“I thought you said the lord of light was gone. Care to explain exactly what this is?”

S K Y W A L K E R.

Kahlua

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