And suddenly the blue star stood before her.
In the shadows of the trees it stood, gleaming so brightly that it should have blinded her except that she did not see it with her eyes. It was not a being that could present itself in a mortal’s view, so it presented itself in her heart, in the fantastical realm of her fancy, yet no less real. Its flanks were white but shone blue, and they were dappled like a starry night. A long, luxurious tail and a rich mane of light flowed like clouds behind it. Its eyes were like the depths of the sky, but also full of light and, more vividly, full of song made visible to the eyes of her heart.
Why are you following me? it said.
It spoke as though even when standing alone it still sang in unison with the whole starry host of the heavens. The sound of its voice sent her to her knees. But there were tears upon her cheeks because it was so beautiful and so good. And its body was fire from its dainty, cloven hooves to the tip of its graceful horn, which rose from the middle of its forehead like a battle standard.
I watched you, it said. I watched you even as I danced across your mortal sky, and I lingered long after I should have pursued my brothers and sisters into the west. I watched you follow me. But you are no sailor, and you are no hero. So tell me why.
She could not speak before such a being. Even in her wildest dreams of stepping into the presence of the Flame, Mouse had not imagined this feeling of utter insignificance that overwhelmed her now.
Those deep-as-night eyes blinked slowly, long lashes covering their depths for an instant. Then it spoke again.
Poor little thing. It has been so long since I spoke to a mortal. I forget how frail you are. Does this help?
Without any apparent change taking place, a different being stood before Mouse. It was still a strange, phenomenal creature, but not so terrible, not so overwhelming. Rather than moving and existing in a place beyond worlds, its form was solid and it stood upon the ground. It reminded Mouse, rather oddly, of nothing so much as a goat.
Not entirely a goat, of course. Perhaps a little of a deer as well, and of a much larger animal for which she had no name. The feet were cloven, prettily feathered, the legs delicate and thin. A beard wisped daintily from the end of its chin, and the tail was long and sweeping. Its face was much longer, much more noble than a goat’s, and its ears were upright, oval, and soft as kitten fur. White lashes framed its black eyes, and the flanks, still dappled, were faintly blue.
It was a beautiful, frightening, wonderful creature. A desperate feeling, rather like love, rose in Mouse’s breast, and she found herself exclaiming, “Oh! What are you? Please tell me!”
The beast looked down and around at itself and flicked its ears, rather like a shrug. When it spoke, its voice was singular, no longer the voice of millions, and she heard it with her ears, not her heart.
“I suppose, in this form, you would call me a unicorn,” it said.
Mouse had heard of unicorns before. But she had always believed they were creatures of the water, for so her Granna had told her. This, however, was a creature unbound by water, fire, air, or stone. “You’re lovely!” she said.
It bowed its head as though embarrassed. “I feel a little lost,” it said, “without my brothers, my sisters. It’s not often that I take on flesh. Stars don’t, you know, especially not for mortals. I only do so now because you are a pure maiden. Would you like to touch me?”
How did it know that she was longing with all her heart to plunge her hands into the silky strands of its mane, to wrap her arms around that powerful neck? Though the thought frightened as much as thrilled, Mouse was on her feet in a second. It bowed its head, and she shied away from that sharp horn. Then, her fear stepping back to make room for her desire, she put out her hands and stroked the velvety nose and gently caressed the soft oval ears.
“I love you,” she said without a thought.
It chuckled. “Little maid, you don’t know what love means. But you will. Now tell me, what is your name?”
She told him. She had not told anyone her true name since she came to the Citadel, and she was certain no one but Granna remembered it. But she told the unicorn without a thought. And it nodded solemnly, accepting the knowledge with quiet grace. What a strange sensation to be known by name to a star!
“What is yours?” she asked then.
“You could not say my name,” it said. “You do not speak the language of stars, nor have you or your kind heard our songs since the last House of Lights was closed. But you may call me Cé Imral, as the Faerie folk do.”