The Edge [Inwe]

[Belgar]

“No, it’s not... You shouldn’t be. I am—” sorry. He wasn’t. Or he was, but he shouldn’t be. Or... “I am Belgar.”

It was the name she had given him. It had some meaning, but he had long forgotten what it was. When he said it then, it felt alien and sour in the back of his throat. He did not much care for names. They were only useful in quieter moments, where words and men minced like fretting hares. In the midst of battle, or through a long, warm rest, it was the scents that separated people, brought them together. More dependable than his tongue, his nose could tell right from wrong.

Belgar breathed deep. The salty tang of fading adrenaline, the wet calm of stirred snow.

“I hope you aren’t hurt,” he said honestly, eyes darting to her hands. It was not an apology, not exactly. He thought to offer a ride to Whitevine, but then he recalled countless times when he had done the same, and observed that she was not injured enough to warrant it. She was more surprised than hurt. The stench of it was melting away into the cool air with the rest of her heat, renewed as it was with each pulse of her blessed heart.

His hand went to his own heart, then dropped to just beneath it, where only he knew his mark was hidden. He looked toward the expanse of snow behind Inwe, the pristine white made beautiful by the passionate strokes of a dancer’s feet. He was reminded of a sparring ground. He mentioned absently, “We Bears are not as... artistically minded as the Vantha. But...” What were the words she used to tease him with? “But not for lack of trying. I have studied long that which she used to call art: Skyglow sketches, Snowsong voices, the sculptures on the Boardwalk. And now, dance.” The steam of patient sweat, the spice of reluctant pride. “But I have come to the conclusion that it is beyond me, and I must find contentment in other things.”