she may contain the urge to run away
but hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks
In the same way that he remembered her, (voiceless, without consequence) so did she remember him - before their encounter in the field, at least. From the moment she had left his presence that day long, long ago, Brynmor had flourished into a character whom her mind settled frequently upon. The Tundra will always be your home, he told her; and although they met never again, his voice often whispered such things to her as she had dwelt within the Chamber.
She scented him, then; his pleasant, manly odor tracing lines through the snow and rocks, leaving remnants of the stallion in wisps and whirls. Her insides squeezed closer together on account of her excitement; Brynmor lives on here, she told herself. Perhaps his offer still stands.
And without further ado, Brynmor drew himself into being before her. The moment she saw him, Xiah could not help but to zoom towards him at a great speed; for all her attitude in the Chamber, here, at home, the once-princess could be nothing but the sweet girl she had always been here.
Xiah, he said in simple greeting. Her silver eyes bounced off of the stallion, from his noticeably whiter coat, to the grin spreading across his lips, to his casually forward-tipped ear. The stallion was, in every way, the inviting gentleman - and she could not have been more ensnared.
“Oh, it’s good to be home,” She offered, lowering herself to the earth while simultaneously adopting a mirror grin to the stallion’s. Assuming that the conversation had met a lull, Xiah stepped forward and hurriedly pressed her face into the base of the Brother’s mane, breathing in his scent like the impulsive yearling she should have no longer been.
And then he was speaking, his breath hot against her sleek neck, and she felt the full weight of the embarrassment this situation begged of her. Retreating (but not before accidentally getting one of his hairs caught in her mouth), Xiah averted her eyes from Brynmor, blushing heavily under her onyx pelt.
Hey, now, who’s daughter are you? She couldn’t decide whether the voice she heard happened to be that of her own conscience, or of her long, lost magician father, but she decided to respect it without question. Her face lost its sheepishness, and her eyes, stolid and fierce, returned to Brynmor’s. Her affection was never lightly given; and shame she refused to feel for having given it.
“Of course I do. I have since I was a little girl, crawling beneath the legs of the Brothers while my father lead kingdom meetings.” She stared at him without breaking, her gaze clearly refusing to believe that anything of her wishes concerning female instatement had come to fruition. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t taunt me with the fact that I, a helpless vixen, am of no use to Tundra’s ranks.”
xiah
