They aren’t really so different.
If Eilidh could only take a look inside her to see what was there, under the wild eyes and flesh and fat, because she’s known what it feels like when your body betrays you -- to ask of it one thing and then receive another. Even today, past her flesh that quivers with the chill in the air, her muscles are begging her to remember how to take hold of what lies dormant inside of her, the power that lays at the ready, trapped under her skin since the day that Moselle died and a constant reminder of that betrayal. Because her body had sold her out in the worst way then.
Because she had wanted to help. She had wanted to do something, anything - and all that her body had wanted was to throw her pulse into her throat, and freeze her legs like iceburgs to the earth. She could only watch as the only thing she loved was stolen.
She could only cry out.
The memory brings hot tears to the backs of her eyes, but she blinks them away and catches Leilan’s eyes instead. He’s trying hard to settle their newly found acquaintance, and she admires him for the effort. “Leilan,” she says after his introduction, softly enough that neither will hear her but she wants to commit it to her memory. She likes learning names; it reminds her that there are things bigger than herself.
He says he’s from Nerine, and Eilidh smiles politely. She imagines the granites cliffs and the endless ocean. She had always wanted to go, begged Moselle to take her to see the ‘end of the earth’. The imagery is bittersweet.
“I’ve heard Nerine is beautiful,” she says, absently, pieces of her hoping that the imagery of Nerine might bring peace to the other mare’s heart.
But she’s unravelling.
But she’s bleeding out her truths and Eilidh can’t save her.
Like that day with Moselle, she can only watch.
“Willa,” Eilidh repeats softly, when the mare is calm again. She’s wearing a smile, but it’s so smile that Eilidh can barely bring herself to look for fear of shattering it.
“I remember long ago, stories my Da told me, that he had heard from others that sometimes the dead come back to life here. Do you think that is true?”
“No,” Eilidh answers, perhaps a little too quickly, perhaps with her wounds just a little too exposed. But she would like to think that maybe, someday, it would be true. She would like to think that maybe, someday, Moselle’s resurrection would see fruition. The stars have had her for far too long now.
“Would you like it to be true?”
⤜ nobody's watching, drowning in words so sweet ⤛
@[Willa]
@[Leilan]