don't leave me here alone; sid pony

[Noori]

Most days, most days stay the sole same
Please stay, for this fear it will not die
Down low, down amongst the thorn rows
Weeds grow, through the lilies and the vines

The bone-laced woman smiles as Noori deftly crafts a serum for her bleeding nose, the stretch of her pale lips placid and dreamy. Young and innocent, the magician smiles back, eager to encourage any form of affection sent her way; she longs for approval and for validation, and hurries in her fabrication, as if that might win her ever more smiles from the dying creature. Ironic, really, that spring incarnate finds herself so enthralled by one who calls her mistress by the name of Death. She who is responsible for new life ought not be so in love with one whose every breath could very well be her last.

The poultice does its job, stopping the rivulets of blood in their tracks and somewhat reviving the prostrate figure. Though her head far from lifts, she at least shakes it, as if ridding her mind of cobwebs which grew far too long ago. As this small movement overcomes the other (and as she processes the compliment given to her by the magician), Noori studies her face thoughtfully, and then her body. Without meaning to do so, she brings three butterflies to perch weightlessly against the point of the mare's emaciated shoulder. The flimsy things are as thin as she is, Noori thinks to herself. Blue, as are the mare's eyes.

What are you?

A wondersome question, filled with possibility and question. Noori blinks her pupiless eyes, stiff bark ears flicking as she thinks upon an answer. Standing this close to the mare, she can see the way her skin twitches with death, but to Noori, the movement is only another expression of beauty and pain.

You're beautiful.

Am I? She knows in her heart that she is, but the babe has yet to conceptualize exactly what that understanding means. In her mind, her beauty stems from her perfect union with nature; she thinks upon this as her eyes settle on the butterflies. Their wings open and close lazily, utterly within the child's control, as unconscious as said control may be.

"I am... a girl," she starts, teetering for a moment as a powerful gust of her own wind pushes her thin, weedy body over the twigs of her legs. Restabilizing, Noori shakes out her willow-mane and promptly plops down into the space between the dying mare's neck and chin. The flared edges of her flesh catch against the other's soft, dying skin, but after a few wiggles and adjustments, Noori is comfortably settled with her chin resting atop the mare's cheek. Their faces are hilariously different in size; the nymph is not a large creature, as small as a newborn foal despite her months of revival.

"I am also the Spring," she whispers, not needing to look to know that the butterflies still sit where she has left them. Enjoying the pulse of her new friend (as it is much faster than her own, as sap flows slowly), Noori closes her eyes. "What are you?"

noori

@[Glassheart]