Beqanna
Under the old oak tree [Mirage/Any] - Printable Version

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Under the old oak tree [Mirage/Any] - Hestia - 11-19-2017

sweet as sugar, hard as ice.
if you hurt me once, i'll kill you twice.

Since she woke she hasn’t stopped moving, searching, picking through the land as thoroughly as a cat bathes it’s coat. As she travels she is careful, she does not know what has happened in the time that she left, and doesn’t want to cross a line that she cannot come back from. Visiting the other kingdoms hasn’t crossed her agenda yet; understanding the politics of state would be wise before venturing into hostile territory on accident in her curious adventures.

Rumors of raids and armies are whispered through the gossiping locals that harbor themselves in the meadow. When this had all first happened, she had been one of those residents. That is, until an old friend found her and they gathered their sisters together banding to rebuild. A shudder overtakes her skin, that is a day that she won’t ever be able to forget, even if she wants to. Standing there in the cold, the dark, as the world changed, the earth feasting on their homes and loved ones. The screams and cries for help as the weak were neatly folded into the land carrying them to their graves. Devoured, burned, and plain killed; familiar faces, and terror filled strangers disappeared never to be seen again. She could only hope that somewhere out there her son and daughter had made it.

Nerine is beginning to grow on her, despite the cold and wet. The grasses are at least sweet, even if it lacks the safety of thick foliage to hunt or hide in depending on what the situation calls for. The tide pulls back, allowing one to walk along the shore and not be lashed at with the salty spray. Now is when it would be the best to explore; as earlier she thought she had seen a cave gasping for air each time the waves rolled back. She couldn’t get to it then, maybe now it would be possible. The sky begins darkening, threatening to ring itself dry over the land. Fuck, she curses at the heavens, there isn’t a tree in sight for her to hide under. She will get wet no matter what, unless she can reach the cave in time. Currently the path is dry, and picking her way along the cliff isn’t overly strenuous.

It takes her a minute to reach the beach and when she does, she pauses for a breath. Up close the shoreline is much more impressive, a thick bar of sand curls around itself blocking the biggest storms, and the cliffs buffer the onslaught of any mischievous sea storm that may have wandered to far from home. Over all it seems like a solid place to ward off natural disasters. However, to armies, they were exposed and would easily be slaughtered. She needs to find something, something that will aid them should war come.
Hestia

@[Mirage]


RE: Under the old oak tree [Mirage/Any] - Walter - 12-09-2017

As the air whistles through his downy white wings and keeps him afloat high above Nerine, Walter remembers the Before.

He doesn’t often (and doesn’t care to, not really).  Thinking on the past only brings back unpleasant memories of wasted years and broken promises.  He tries to forget the man he’d been before their world had shifted around them, if only because he is so much better now.  When he lost his supernatural ability to read emotions, he’d been forced to sort his own out.  Naturally, without aid.  He’d examined himself at the atomic level, all the layers he’d put on had been peeled back and splayed open for anyone to see.  What he found buried so far inside had been the lonely boy who’d been abandoned just after birth.  A boy who had never known touch – not even that of a mother – and had balked at it ever since.  

The Reckoning had been like a balm to his very soul.

The breeze changes, suddenly, and the golden pegasus feels the first inklings of an oncoming storm.  He thinks about how different they are here than they were in the Chamber.  He remembers, in his old home, how the residents had sheltered under the thick pine trees.  The distinct smell of the trees after a good soaking had been such a pleasant smell.  He remembers, too, how the thunder had made no difference; it rumbled under their feet just the same as the living heart had.

Here in Nerine, there are only the few caves carved deeply into the limestone cliffs to hide within.  Walter angles his wings and tilts down, meaning to do just that before the new sisterhood fills it.  He much prefers the wild northern parts of the kingdom where fewer venture.  But today, he’s searching for Djinni in the more populated area when the storm takes him by surprise.  He won’t make it back before nature lashes out at them.  The dot of bright yellow against the dark grey sky becomes bigger as he descends.  Down, down, until the warm sand cushions his landing.

And he sees he isn’t the first to scope out the cave.

A black mare stands nearby, eying the shoreline but not venturing within the sheltered place.  He has half a mind to take it first – finders keepers and all that – but he rolls his eyes and steps closer to her instead.  His footsteps are expertly and unintentionally quiet.  He never thought he’d get used to walking on the slippery substrate, but here he is, walking as silent as a soldier.  The woman looks drawn in thought.  He recognizes the look well, but isn’t so keen dealing with it on others.  A sigh passes between his greyed lips.  The first crash of thunder races towards them across the waves.  “Hey,” he says, not smiling.  Not yet.  “Got a lot on your mind or are you thinking about jumping in?”  

 

Walter

you should come back home



@[Hestia]


RE: Under the old oak tree [Mirage/Any] - Hestia - 01-12-2018

sweet as sugar, hard as ice.
if you hurt me once, i'll kill you twice.

The bitter winds offer no caress, nor fond embrace for the soured bitch. They are unyielding whips salty with their punishing sting. At one time she may have stood there basking in the rains, accepting the embrace and feeling the closeness of nature as she opened her soul to Beqanna. Believing to be in some form of favorable light with the land. However, today she stands there resting from the labor of traversing the slippery path. And once more she discovers just how naïve she really is. Just when one thinks that they may have seen everything, something new rears its head to throw a creature off course and reveal a whole new darkness that used to be beyond one’s comprehension.

Her sides steam with the slick of sweat as it is washed away by the rains. Small puffs of air may be seen leaving her nostrils before the rain pounds them to the ground snuffing the visible air before it can escape. This rain is not pleasant, and the ocean seems to be working itself into a frenzy hungrily reaching to snag her away into its foamy depths. Offering her a cold dark grave where she can forget all that lay in the past. But it’s the past that keeps her going, it forces her to search for purpose and acceptance. She clings to the past because that is all she has, all that she is. She is a relic from a bygone era that none desire to remember; and when she goes, for she will go, so will all the dark secrets of the old world. Sure there are magic horses around, ones that call themselves gods, but they slumber. Their minds do not carry the weight or the intimate details of lives affected by their travesties. If the waves had tempted her before she had already stared into the face of death, she may have been more inclined to accept the offer. However, she finds herself more fearful of its grip than she was before she had tasted of its poisoned fruit. As she contemplates her situation, a situation of nothing good. A soft voice stirs her away from her thoughts long enough to realize that they must get out off the beach before the storms crush them against the cliffs.

She doesn’t bother to glance towards the stranger, at least not yet. The prideful part of her bristles at the fact that someone is nudging into her business. Yet the floundering female, afraid to be sucked under the waves and entirely forgotten grabs for any bit of conversation as a lifeline for her lonely lost self. With reluctance she admits, thinking about how it is that we end up where we do in life. pulling herself from thought, her green eyes flit to look over the stranger. Softening her gaze when she notices his wings, the storm would not be kind to him if he stays out here too long. That cave may hold us both if you would like shelter. Her weight shifts slightly uncomfortable with her awkwardness. The idea of the proximity they would need to be in to fit in the cave… well let’s just say closeness isn’t something that she does on a regular day.

She begins to trek towards the cave, and without looking back she asks, partly out of curiosity, and partly a jab at him for nudging into her personal business. What about you? She secretly grimaces at her lack of decorum, and pauses with a sigh turning her body so that they can have a full view of one another. After listening to what he says she continues,I’m Hestia offering a upturned twitch of her lip; in consolation for her attitude. Great going, you’re winning personality shines again, the voice nags in the back of her mind giving her reason to bite her tongue.
Hestia

@[Walter]

OMG! I'm so sorry this took so long. x_x. If you need me to change anything let me know <3 Can't wait to see where this goes lol. Its going to be interesting no matter what!


RE: Under the old oak tree [Mirage/Any] - Walter - 01-14-2018

This storm looks to be a doozy.

Even as the first drops of rain fall from the space above he’d just occupied, he knows it will grow into a deluge.  The drops are fat and cold and hit hard against his golden hide.  They are due for a soaker, he supposes.  Thus far, it’s been a rather mild season and the already briny seagrass grows drier and less palatable without rain.  But tastier food will come at a great personal cost.  Already, Walter feels like a drowned rat and it has only just begun.  So he isn’t thrilled about it, but he moves closer to the lone black figure anyway, tucking his wings as tightly to his sides as he can.  He asks her what she’s doing out here – inquires on her mental state without putting the exact (and perhaps impolite) question into words.  Her answer doesn’t confirm anything, but it doesn’t deny anything, either.  He thinks he’ll proceed with caution with this one.

“Ah,” is all he says in reply, though a violent gust of wind rips the syllable away from him.  It batters him, blowing his blond mess of a mane into his eyes.  He thinks he has landed just in the nick of time.  The palomino is about to turn and scurry into the cave himself when she turns to look at him.  That cave may hold us both if you would like shelter.   Peering back under the curtain of hair, he shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him one way or another.  What was a bit more rain and wind and angry sea?  Of course he wants shelter!  And he’ll race her to get in there first if it means he is more protected from the elements than she is.  

But the dark woman brushes by him, and by the time he turns himself, he is instead on her heels to the shelter.  The sand has quickly become wet and squelches under their hooves as they pass over it.  He has half a mind to pick up speed and beat her to the cave, but she catches him off guard with a question.  “Me?”  He practically yells to be heard over the whistling air that glances off the limestone cliffs.  The waves frantically crash against the shore over and over again behind them.  Almost like they are running from something.  “I was watching from above.  Everyone is so small and insignificant when you see them down here. Their lives, so meaningless in the grand scheme of things.”  So much for proceeding with caution, but the weather is making him more grumpy than normal.  He doesn’t mean her, necessarily.  But now that she’s away from the ocean, he’s not worried she’s going to jump in at the slightest provocation.

Not on his watch.

“Walter,”  he replies, as soon as she gives her name.  She turns fully, too, giving him the tiniest smile that ever was.  It’s really just a twitch of her lip – perhaps she was actually grimacing at having found herself in his company (it has happened before) – but he takes it as a good sign.  Now, the rain comes down in thick sheets, utterly soaking him to the bone.  He wonders if he'll ever be dry again.  The stallion nods towards the cave mouth that yawns at the swirling sea.  If she didn’t hurry up, he was going to push by her, chivalry be damned.  
 

 

Walter

you should come back home



@[Hestia]: I think they will be two peas in a pod (or cave)! <3


RE: Under the old oak tree [Mirage/Any] - Hestia - 01-24-2018

sweet as sugar, hard as ice.
if you hurt me once, i'll kill you twice.

Hestia has a terrible habit of tensing up when others pry into her world of thoughts. This makes small talk and friendships strained, it’s worse when she tries to maintain those relations. This does not make her into a bumbling antisocial pest; if anything, it makes her more social… that is when a conversation has a goal. Hestia’s favorite goals in conversation usually orientate around politics, kingdom errands, and recruiting. It’s all so impersonal and her sharp wit keeps conversations on track. It could be said that conversation is her forte, but who’s bragging? As quickly as he started to pry Walter seems to drop the topic and with that she relaxes as much as is possible for her.

She finds herself pausing at his response. Oh the irony, everyone searches for significance, and yet you can take to the skies and find that all they strive for is inconsequential. She can’t help the laughter that bubbles out her throat, but it’s not a pretty sound. Left unused for the last century (well except for when Bowie decides to pay her a visit) she can’t be sure if it can even be called a laugh. More of an ugly scratch of a bark it doesn’t last long, a few breaths and she is calmed once more. No matter if it’s from your skies, or my expanse of time; the definition of life is trivial. He’s impressed the black hag though, and she finds herself curious as to who it is that can draw a laugh from her.

She is startled when finally discovering his true appearance. A small piece shoved far in the back of her mind remembers another winged palomino with a bad attitude, a nightmare of a creature. The rest of her mind is dazzled, and doesn’t know what to make of him or how to connect his personality with the angelic appearance before her. Looking like that, she would have avoided him at all costs in any other situation. She has one peppy personality already in her life, and no desire for another. Just another reminder to kick her cynicism down a notch. Names exchanged, the rest of the trek is silent.

When arriving at the entrance of the cave she cringes against the idea of sharing space. Especially with a winged horse, she can’t imagine him getting those wings dry if they are folded up after being in this gale. Taking a deep breath she saunters into the hole turning and pressing herself as close as she can to the wall. Glancing his way, she feels a little sorry for his predicament and chooses to move closer to the entrance so that his wings stand a chance at drying. This is going to be a long one, the voice in her head gloats. She could just see it gleaming hungry for some chance to weasel its way further into her psych. She glances again at Walter, shifting awkwardly but doing her best not to press into him. Shivering, large droplets weep down her coat; she doesn’t really know how to pass the time, so the first thing that comes to mind comes out. Are you comfortable? probably not, but still; maybe there is something more she can do to ease this tension between new acquaintances.

Hestia

@[Walter] Yesss! Adorable, and hilarious


RE: Under the old oak tree [Mirage/Any] - Walter - 01-30-2018

As two strangers literally blown together against the storm, they are rather well-matched.

Each grain of sand feels like a needle as the wind makes missiles of them against his legs. He pays them little mind. Her response to his droll observation made among the clouds peaks his interest. So, he is no longer the only one who doesn’t take himself too seriously in Nerine. The land is chalk full of wannabe warrior women without a fight to their name, but who still pretend they are living in the Jungle’s glory days. In Walter’s admittedly meaningless opinion, it has long felt like an experiment gone wrong. But no one else seems to share his philosophy, so on he goes alone mocking them behind their raised noses, the irritable bastard. The dark mare in front of him laughs after her own response, which makes him smile. He will be glad to have an ally in his isolated corner of skepticism.

Her answer also gives him insight into her life thus far. She talks like someone’s who has lived a long life, and her freely given remark about her expanse of time confirms it. It isn’t often Walter gets to meet someone as old as he is. She’ll remember the old Beqanna (he wonders if the pines of the Chamber have brushed her dark sides, if the baking Desert sand has slid under her feet). He wonders, too, which version she prefers? This one, or that one? But the surprised look on her face when she turns around blanks him of that question and any others that would have come next. Who has he reminded her of? He takes a thoughtful step back to give her space but she’s already moving past him. Apparently, he’s forgiven in the face of the storm that bears down on them. Hestia makes her way into the cave - finally! - and he does not hesitate to follow.

She slips into the opening of the shelter like a shadow. He, however, is not so graceful. The pegasus has to squeeze his large wings as tightly to his sides as he can just to fit in the entrance (he is sure he pulls a muscle in doing so). Then, there is the rather delightful proposition of turning around while trying, and failing, not to barge into his companion. She shrinks back against the wall like he is actually the person he reminds her of, though it could be that she just doesn’t want to get anymore wet from him than she already is. The water streams off of his feathers and he suppresses the urge to shake them. Finally, the stallion is facing the mouth of the cave, further away from the entrance than Hestia. It is a tight fit, but they manage.

He laughs at her question. “Oh yes. The height - the pinnacle, even - of comfort.” And really, it is not so terrible. Walter, too, had once been averse to the touch of others. It is hard to image now, as he presses impossibly close to the black mare, but the Reckoning had utterly changed him. Stripped of his empathy, the selfish man had to suss out conversations and relationships on his own, without his supernatural talent. He is finally the empath he thought he had always been. But it doesn’t stop him from testing the woman next to him now. He reaches for her in a familiar and old way, wondering what emotions might lay under her pessimistic shield. Hmmm, he thinks to himself, then tries another tactic. “So, you are old then?” He doesn’t try to look apologetic as he says it. “Why did you come to Nerine? Where did you live before it happened?” No one has to say what “it” is. The change to end all changes, the event that ripped the land clean apart, as unsympathetic as he had just been. “I was from the meadow, mostly. But when I was a young boy – physically, not mentally mind you – I grew up in the Chamber. I still dream about that piney wench, stupid as that is now.”  

 

Walter

you should come back home



@[Hestia]


RE: Under the old oak tree [Mirage/Any] - Hestia - 01-31-2018


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there...
dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before...
Loving with a love that was more than love
- Edgar Allen Poe
She secretly indulges in a ghost of a smile at his sarcasm. At first, she is tense enough to be a statue. He is so much larger than her. It’s a stray thought that whispers of a weakness she has. She can’t help but feel his muscle all along her side when a warm breath of a touch reminds her of times when contact with others wasn’t so foreign a concept for her. She can’t help but relax into it a little, her eyes fluttering closed before she startles herself back up from the embarrassing moment of weakness. He is quick to take her mind off the situation at hand. lost track after a hundred years, if that makes me old then yes I’m old, she replies wryly, how many horses had ever asked her about her age? None, well Erros had, but that didn’t really count. She has never asked another’s age mainly because she always feels like she is robbing the cradle if she inquires, but if he wants to pry she will pry right back. how old are you?

He doesn’t seem to have the same inhibitions she does, as he continues to question her. The next one she needs to pause. Why Nerine, most likely because I wanted to go back to my roots. her reply is vague and she knows it. What really had happened was that she had inadvertently started Nerine when she had called out for the sisters to gather in her search for a familiar face. Lost and afraid they had taken the little group that had answered and formed a new kingdom, Nerine. She parrots him, needling in her witchy ways. And you? Why Nerine?

Then he asks a very sly question and she ends up looking at him calculating her response. She could dodge the question in a thousand and one ways, but then he’d just pry further. All of them give to little detail and leave an opening for him to question further. Come on you know you want to get it out there, the nagging voice in her head whispers distracting her from thinking on how to respond, he continues with his own story. She has a feeling he’s baiting her, tit for tat and all that. Alright, it’s only fair, he is sharing the space with her. Though it has to be the hardest thing she has ever done. Not once has she never mentioned to anyone why she had gone missing, but actually made an effort to hide what had really happened. I was consort in the Valley when I was murdered and tethered to… she trails off swallowing down the bile that threatens to rise. Now its not just rain dripping down her coat, but she braves on and in a feeble and quiet voice she speaks the name that had been haunting her since she first saw him. Pollock.

For the next moments she loses herself to thought, watching as the goat crushed others similar to herself, his jealous fits always getting the better of him. Her children grew up without her, rumors abounded that Fennick had turned to stone in his grief, others say he ran off abandoning the infant son and yearling daughter, while the most common one was that he went to look for Hestia. And the worst of all the nightmares, she was forced to follow that creature around never feeling a thing other than rage. Him being the only one to hear and see her. Eventually she grew tired and felt only pity for the sorry mess of a monster, some call it Stockholm, she calls it survival. She shakes her head clearing it of that piece of her past. Looking over at him once more secretly starving for something to erase those memories and the voice that accompanies them. She almost leans into him shifting her weight to her outer hooves. She’s real, its over… The mantra continues. Silencing the past. The Chamber is definitely dream worthy, I liked spending time there when Starlace was ruling, though visiting when Eight was around was pretty good too, her voice is soft and she once more feels calm. The only kingdoms she had never stepped foot in were the Falls and the Tundra. As a sister she had been forbidden from the Tundra, and the Fall’s had never become enough of a threat to them for them to want to send her there. It was the Valley she had considered to be her second home, Vampy, and later on gallows, along with all the many horses that welcomed her with open arms when Jadis had sent her two year old daughter there to learn and grow into the political genius she had always wanted of her first born. Do you like it here in Nerine? I know its not the Chamber, nor Valley, nor Amazons; but you have to admit it’s got its own sort of charm. Once more she finds herself molding her body against his, snuggly fitting in next to him so that they may both be comfortable even in this tight space. She raises her head a little to see his reaction to this, before swiftly averting her eyes towards the rain. Cursing herself for getting so comfy next to a stranger. How the hell would she cope when left alone and deprived of touch once more. She couldn’t let herself slip up now.
Hestia
©Photo by Stanislav Istratov

@[Walter]


RE: Under the old oak tree [Mirage/Any] - Walter - 02-04-2018

Her hesitation at first is a real, palpable thing to Walter.

It strikes him like lightning, intense and bright, as he settles alongside her in the cave. If he could read her mind, (how many times has he wished to have an explanation to go along with the feelings his empathy provides?) he would reassure her that he is no threat. He is the opposite of a threat, really. Besides, blood would never wash out of his snow white wings. The feeling from her dissipates as quickly as it comes on. Ahead of him, he sees as her eyes close for a moment, locking away her secrets under another inaccessible layer. She takes her discomfort too, though, and he is glad. There isn’t enough room in here to be a stranger for long.

The palomino makes a low whistle under his breath at her admittance of age. “Impressive.”“I’m nearing…eighty? Maybe?” He cocks his head, considering. Has it been that long truly? Has it been so many years since his mother abandoned him in the Den with only his parents’ names and his own? He tries to remember Ellen’s face but only sees the one who had come next. Morbid Reason. The lady with the dark, husky voice who had taken him to the Chamber. She had told him, “I’m not your mother.” And that was fine with Walter. As it turned out, he never needed one, anyway.

Wind howls outside of their shelter, the end of the storm still out of sight. With the rain making itself into a curtain at the rocky entrance, it seems like they are in their own space outside of reality. Like they are watching the world from a secret vantage point adjacent to it. Their combined body heat rapidly warms the scoop, so that Walter relaxes his strained wings. They fall and brush along Hestia’s ribs and flanks lightly as he feels the tension of holding them leave his shoulders. He looks over at her suddenly as she begins to answer his questions. She is vague at the first, but he reasons that she means the Jungle. Of course. She is like so many of the women here in that respect. In others, though, she seems nothing like them.

He doesn’t return with his own answer right away. He sees that his next question gives her pause, waits to see where that line of thought will lead them in her life story. She even looks at him before mustering up the words. Murdered. Tethered. Pollock. His encouraging smile dips into a dangerously straight line. Because anywhere else, the words don’t make sense. But here in Beqanna, where anything is possible and the lines are often blurred, (good and evil, right and wrong, magical and ordinary, life and death) her story is entirely believable. Walter sees the way it drags her through the muck to say it. Only here, in the impossible space of quiet reverence amongst the chaos outside, does she free the story that has ironically haunted her. He places a soft touch of his muzzle on her shoulder in understanding but says nothing.

Moments pass where he lets her come back into herself, into the present. He knows first-hand how difficult it can be to return when the memories bind one so tightly. She finally mentions the Chamber of old and it is something they can both latch onto. “Starlace was my hero as a child,” he says, his sides fluttering with gentle laughter. He remembers the capable leader she was, the machine-like kingdom she had run. He remembers her daughters fondly as well…but that was a story for another time and different company, perhaps. “I was too busy dodging authority to ever win her favor, though.” A wormy grin wiggles his whiskered lips. Ah, youth.

“Nerine is grey and cold and monotonous,” he says, looking towards the doorway and imagining he can hear the endless whitecaps on the shore beyond. “I never thought I would find a home that is exactly like me, but here I am. Here Nerine is.” It took him quite a while to make it his home, but now, he can’t imagine living anywhere else. Not in this version of Beqanna. The pegasus notices the way the dark mare curls into him. He is helpless to move away. They are finally warming and she’s just spilled her secrets – where would he go besides? Walter tries to paint her over in his mind, pretends she’s that familiar gold and grullo he loves. It is easier in their slice of not-reality, in their cave of secrets. Djinni had been gone so long, and even when she returned, she stayed away from him. How much longer can he wait for her? “I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” he echoes out loud this time. A crack of thunder puts an exclamation to the end of his admission.

 

Walter

you should come back home



@[Hestia]


RE: Under the old oak tree [Mirage/Any] - Hestia - 02-10-2018


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there...
dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before...
Loving with a love that was more than love
- Edgar Allen Poe
Hestia always hated the mind readers. They could see everything, and yet they understood nothing. Some would roll their eyes thinking the reflections as self-pity, or worthless ramblings. They couldn’t know how lost an immortal can feel when some dear old friend approaches and she can’t recognize them. The pain that she watches as another name slips away dissolving into oblivion. How fearful she is that her mind will disintegrate before her body. For sanities sake, she chooses to remember; often losing herself to the memories, reminding herself that she survives for the names that she can’t recall. How she remembers so that she doesn’t forget.

He surprises her again, well for once she doesn’t need to feel guilty. And can have no shame, as he is no babe in a cradle. She stands there next to him cocooned behind a shield that buffers them from the spiteful world outside. The world where she would be looking, wondering what monster is going to jump from the shadows. The rain thrumming a steady rhythm soothing in its own way. His body brushes hers, and she can’t help the delicious shudder from warmth, and… He doesn’t feel so tense now; lingering thoughts speculate on how he feels about this situation they’ve been shoved into. Could he be just as stressed as she was on first entering the cave? He quells the thoughts as the questions begin pouring out.

Her ears perk, and her neck swivels in delight at his recognition of Starlace. Watching the Amazons and Chamber work together under Anarchist and Starlace was… she trails off remembering the mocks, meetings, and battles as Chamber and Amazonians worked side by side. Her blood comes alive, pulsing through her body, out of all the things she has forgotten, the dreadful awe-inspiring sight of those two rulers smiling, plotting, and working together would forever be etched in her mind. Those were the glory days. Wistfully her voice drifts; the day they greeted each other was the day that I truly devoted myself to the sisterhood. Even if I wasn’t living with the sisters that the time. her smile is large, open, and genuine when he says that he was up to childish antics at the time. It was a time when they could be childish. Maybe she is making it up in her mind, but she feels a connection to him lingering in this moment.

It blows away like smoke does when their conversation drifts to other things, though like smoke it’s residue seems to have clung to her. Maybe it’s the safety of their little cave, maybe it’s the time trip they’ve explored prying into life stories that otherwise would remain locked. Maybe she has let herself become to lonely in this new world. Whatever the reason, she finds herself able to relax into him. It’s then that those thoughts of what he must be experiencing rise again. He can’t escape her, she can’t escape him; in a way she feels scraped raw. Things that have been buried deep secretly kept away from others is pulled out of her here. She’s sluffed away things that have long been rotting away her insides. Washed clean and maybe a little sensitive, for a moment she wonders if this could be considered betraying her mate? But once more her thoughts echo his, how much longer can she search? Even if she does find him, she wonders if she would ever be able to forgive him. He left their young, he abandoned them; and that infuriates her enough that Hestia doesn’t think she could ever find the capacity to forgive him.

Walter is large, he has wings, he’s even a bit friendly, (if she is willing to admit that to herself). Why not just indulge? They can pretend and imagine it’s the perfect world of their ‘as-close-to-fairytale youth’ as one could possibly hope for. With their soulmates, and queens who love their kingdoms with an unquenchable fire. At his words she closes her eyes allowing herself to become lost in their make-believe shell. Her heart takes the moment, using it as a balm. When the thunder cracks she can’t help but back away from it a step or two, and closer to him. Neither would I, she leans into him, her neck under his listening to the storm raging outside.

Nothing seems as if it will breach this, their moment, their world; it’s theirs and no matter what happens. At least she can say she isn’t alone anymore. Thank you Walter, so much that was important in life had been forgotten or frozen out in her hope of a someday. She knows she needs to face that, that someday had already come and gone. For now, though, Walter is her someday, and that is something she can live with.
Hestia
©Photo by Stanislav Istratov

@[Walter]