<font color=#835b47> We've become echoes%01 but echoes%01 they fade away </font> [Thorn]

We've become echoes, but echoes, they fade away [Thorn]
IP: 71.216.41.214
Posted on March 25, 2020 at 12:05:48 PM by Morgon

If Morgon had realized he�d be going to such a lavish party, he would have packed differently.

This is the absurdity he held onto, gazing at all the glittering lights, glittering fountains, glittering people. He paled next to them, in the only collared shirt he owned, unbuttoned at the top with the tie knotted too loosely, and slacks that he hadn�t had time to iron. Not that he had an iron. That had not been at the top of his list, when he�d frantically stuffed everything he could reach into a rucksack and taken a hoploop to Shaman.

Morgon knew that this world had only recently come out of a civil war � that was what the celebration was about, after all � but seeing the joyous aftermath in contrast with the frantic, terrified beginning back on Earth was�difficult. There had been no mention of Gwythr or the council during the ceremony, though the new King had promised �to maintain Shaman as a place of sanctuary,� whatever that meant. Maybe that had been the most they could get away with, in light of the opposition. The King was barely older than himself, he noticed. How much could he do, against a God?

Still, the subtlety of it stung. It was hard not to take it personally, when the whole situation felt very personal to Morgon. He fidgeted with his leather bracelets as the party took off, thinking of his family. Hoping they were safe.

At least he had Sybel�and Sport.

Sport, as usual, was drawing more than her fair share of attention. To Morgon, she looked like a regular dog � some miscellaneous mash-up of shepherd, terrier and retriever, with the markings to suggest the shepherd predominance � but to everyone else, she clearly looked �special.� Morgon had heard her described as purple or lilac or amethyst or lavender, had endured the gasps of delight from people who saw her so differently than he ever could, had smiled as graciously as he could muster. Tonight was following the same pattern as he strolled after her, the canine ambassador from Earth, accepting her tributes of pets and completely ignoring any of his requests to heel. His hands were in his pockets, to avoid being shaken. His eyes kept rolling up to Sybel in the trees, who could only offer him vague amusement.

It was just Sport�s way, after all. She was always looking for something. Maybe, in Shaman, he�d eventually run into someone who could translate her thoughts for him�though it was probably something about squirrels, and food scraps, and crotch-sniffing. Gods, he could really do without the latter. Morgon was praying she wouldn�t stick her nose anywhere impolite at this incredibly fancy party, that he shouldn�t have brought a dog to in the first place.

I did tell you so, Sybel reminded him unhelpfully. Unhelpful, because he brought both of them everywhere.

�Hey,� he finally called after her, as she picked up the pace from an amble to a trot, apparently catching the scent of whatever it was she was seeking. �Hey. Hey!� Sport pressed on. Morgon pulled his hands free as he darted after her, weaving between people as they drank and mingled, trying not to accidentally touch anyone. After several minutes of nearly losing her, he found her leaning heavily against the legs of a girl, her whip-tail wagging hard and her head turned up adoringly. Morgon slowed, feeling awkward.

�Uh, sorry. She�s an extrovert,� he said sheepishly, running a hand through his half-combed hair. The girl was pretty, and he was�well, a mess, compared to so many of these people. And he had freckles goddamn everywhere, which was the only notable feature he could actually see in the mirror, and which he of course despised. He averted his eyes a moment, long lashes casting shadows over his cheeks in the late afternoon light. �Her name is sport,� he offered lamely.

Photo by Blake Cheek on Unsplash

Replies:

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