Moonspear you could turn my sorrow into song

After the lament ceased, Meerkat turned her attention back to the skies. For long minutes, she watched the colors dance and twist, ephemeral. Then Njord spoke, his brogue recapturing her attention as he launched into an unexpected monologue about a man named Merlin.

Her lips parted when Njord started the story with Merlin’s death. When he told her that Erzulie had trysted with Merlin the same year as him, she blinked. A sharp intake of breath met his confession about Mireille’s true parentage. Her jaw clenched when Njord explained why he was telling her this: because nobody else ever talked about Merlin.

Surely it was because he’d been a man and men were only tools—no, trash—to the wolves of Sapphique. Bile burned in her throat. She swallowed. Heat crowded under her jaw when she realized Njord hadn’t even owed Mireille his love, yet he had given it anyway. Bitches, Meerkat thought waspishly.

She tried not to let her agitation show, breathing in and out as Njord concluded by commending Sobo and his siblings. Meerkat felt nothing for any of them, save for the fire of her anger, which she tried to stomp out inside herself. Her sentiments toward Sapphique could be summed up in two words: scorched earth.

And you were and are a good da, Meerkat murmured, bending upward to kiss his chin. I love you, mo chride. I never expected any of this, she said, gesturing at the mountainous terrain and then flinging a leg toward the sky, but I think, in time, we’ll be happier here than we’ve ever been.