Asleep in front of a flame.
Some people look forward to it.
Some people fear it.
It's a kind of safety. Â
A kind of fear. Â
All depends on the context.
Especially when it's dark. Â Especially when you're not awake to tend it.
Listen to the dark around the giant roe sprawled out on the stone, face down, drooling, with nothing more than shallow breaths to show it's alive.
Listen to the two other voices around the fire.
Familiar. Â More polished.
"Is this what we've got to look forward to? Â Every time he shows up I'm left wondering if we might not be better off taking a jump off a tall wall one of these days. Â And soon."
Nothing but a low chuckle in the dark as a response from the one on the far right.
"Oh. You think that's fun-I remember that laugh. Â You dog. Â Blow the candle out. Â Wake up, blow it out, and go live your damn life."
A pair of red eyes in the dark watched the roe on the stones, being crushed in the grasp of Morpheus.
"If he's any indication of what we have to look forward too you might as well get your kicks while you can afford them, eh?"
The eyes in the middle of the circle shut.
The fire went dark.
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Decades ago, in a dark inn room, a pair of red eyes opened to an unfamiliar ceiling. Â
There was a single candle burning on a bedside stand. Â The owner of the orbs's first action was to lick his fingers and pinch the flame out. Â A quiet grunt into the pillow he was lodged against was the meant the pain of the burn had registered. Â The young roe sitting up out of the bed rubbed his fingers together thoughtfully before swinging his legs out and padding over to the window on quiet, calloused feet.
Opening the window took some effort. Â Doing it quietly took more. Â There was a layer of snow against the outside eves and a thin layer of frost inside that gave a muffled crackle as the teenager pushed his shoulder to the task and let the winter air of the Spine roll over him.
Behind him, in the bed, someone rolled over and pulled the heavy duvet up over their head in unconscious protest.
At the window, however, the teenager was pulling on a pair of breeches and a belt from which hung an ornate, long stemmed, thin brass pipe. Â He hopped out of the window and onto the frozen roof of the inn and the deathly cold mountain air. Â The giant teenager stood tall, squinted at the stars, and took his bearings before carefully scaling the sloping roof behind him to reach the peak of the inn's shingled arch. Â It was easy to recognize what this was now. It was a scene that's played out over and over. Â A large, white haired, red eyed roe, on a high place, facing east and waiting for the sun. Â Hammersmith unhooked a pipe from the belt of the breeches and started packing the bowl with something that could only be described as tribal.
Back in the room, the other occupant of the room had given up trying to deny winter existed. Â This one is tall as well. Â And smart enough to roll through the sheets, turning the bedding into a long, warm sheath of cloth to drag with her into the cold air of the room. Â A pack on the floor was her first stop, from which she pulled a flask, then the window, then the roof. Â She was following a similar path, following bare footsteps and the other half clad roe up to the perch he'd taken. Â The wind clawed at a long blonde braid running down her spine and whistled through the heavy, ornate brass ring fixing the end.
It didn't take long for her to trace the smith's path up to the roof's peak or to drape over the giant's exposed back. Â He didn't turn around, just moved to pass the pipe over his shoulder to her. Â She clamped it into her mouth and grinned around the stem. Â In turn she passed the flask down into the still open hand, smiling around the smoke and sparks leaking from her pale lips.Â
She ducked down to rest her chin on an all too broad shoulder. Â He took a long pull from the flask before leaning his head against hers.
No words.
Just a couple watching the sun rise in the Spine of the world.
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Three days later, a crimson eye surrounded by bloody vessels opened.
The sun was coming up and, in the depth of the shroud, an old voice swore.
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