"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
The bay woman moves through the great grass sea. The brown of her coat glistens like a spit shined penny under the rising sun of morning. Lobes are moving to catch any sounds outside her blind spots, the tickle of growing grasses tickling her belly. Vaka finds herself enjoying the quiet of the meadow in the early spring.
The frost of a late winter clings to the shaded parts of the land but the sun's eyes feels good. Vakarian settles to graze in the pool of warmth, letting it relax and sooth the soreness of her bones from her most recent journey to the coat...her new home.
The sounds of birds reach her. The scent of new fawns and damp earth invigorate and energize the sienna mare as she centers herself with the gentle voice of Beqanna. On the occasion, an amber eye turns skyward to gaze at the sounds of crows cawing overhead to their mates before her attention returns to the lullaby of the land.
I guess it was inevitable that I’d wander away from the forest eventually. Even the woodland doesn’t really get to be my home, not exactly. It’s just a place that I’m growing more familiar with as time passes and I explore it more thoroughly. But as kind as the forest has been to me, I’ve come to find myself a bit...discontent with it. Or with spending all my time there. Maybe it’s part of my curse, to not feel at home even where I’m allowed to be. Or maybe it’s just spring settling into my bones and making me restless. Making me want to move, to explore, to see something other than endless woodland everywhere I turn.
Somehow stepping out of the forest feels like...like walking out of a too-small cave where the walls are too close and the ceiling’s too close and I can’t spread out my wings at all, they have to stay tight to my body so they don’t rub up against the rock. Breathing feels a little easier, and I stretch out my wings and let the sun sink into them, the black of my coat and my feathers absorbing the early spring sunlight and the warmth that goes along with it.
Even months after Beqanna took my fire away, I’m still so cold without it. Always so cold. I’ve started to get used to the constant chill, the uncomfortable numbness, the way it’s settled in everywhere, even in my chest now. Even my heart feels a little numb, and that would be worrisome if it didn’t take so much effort to worry at all. Maybe without my fire, I’m just like my mother, cold inside and uncaring. The idea is unsettling, and I rustle my wings and fan them out a little more, spreading them as big as I can to soak up more of the sun’s heat. Doing the little I can to combat the cold.
I never want to be like her.
I’m not the only person here in the meadow trying to absorb the sunlight and let it sink into my skin to try to fight the cold. As I step out of the shade cast by the trees, I spot a woman grazing in a pool of light, her coat shining in the sun where mine is shaggy with thick winter fur and dull from a bit too much hunger gnawing at my belly over the coldest season when food was too scarce for comfort. Though really, I left comfort behind a while ago now.
Taking advantage of the vibrant green growth of early spring sounds like an excellent idea, really. So I slip a little closer and lower my head to graze too, eating a few mouthfuls and chewing slowly before I bother to say anything. When I’m a little less hungry, I finally speak a quiet little greeting. “Hello.” Well. I did say it was a little greeting, didn’t I? Funny, I usually ramble on and on. Maybe the cold took over my throat too, because words feel like more work than they should. So I just take another mouthful to excuse the silence. And because maybe the food will help warm me up inside at least a little bit.
Vakarian. The warrior woman. So bold, so confident.
But-
Something has changed in her. Was it the loss of her armor? A newly felt vulnerability she knew had known before? In the past, if she were too chilled, the diamonds would grow across her to create a hardened hide. Perhaps she was now just like every other horse that passed through Beqanna. She was no longer unique...but wait, was she before the change?
Amber pools remain trained to the path before her as she moves slowly to clip at the grass. Lids fall as she crawls inward to think, reflect. The sound of another does not break the spell, the web that trapped her except for the tiniest 'hello'. Dark lashes lift to see that of a rather fetching mare. She is so vivid that it hurts Vaka's eyes for a moment and she must adjust in fear of burning out her eyes. The delicate shaped skull of the bay lifts as she swallows the lat bits of her meal and she nods, a small and shy smile moving over her lips. "Hello there..." The voice she carries is lower than she would have liked but the retort was already pressed into the air between them. "I'm Vaka." The mare offers up to fill in the space between them as the simple greeting did not suffice her.
Yes, this is awkward. Yes, it seems like both mares are angled and jutting where conversation should be smooth. Vaka does train her ears towards the ruby and obsidian woman with interest as it would be nice to have some conversation.
As it happens, a few mouthfuls of grass do nothing to warm me back up. The food does manage to ease the sharp pangs of hunger in my belly, at least. But the cold clings just as stubbornly to my insides as it did before. Oh well. No surprise there. It was at least worth a shot, even if the effort was in vain.
Still, I take another mouthful of the rich, newly-grown grass. I still need to put on the weight I lost over the winter, and round out my gangly, awkward yearling frame a bit. Put some meat on my too-cold bones. Maybe that would help fight off the chill of being without my fire friend? Regardless, I should at least not starve to death. No sense in that.
The stranger does a better job of filling the silence than I did with my quiet little hello, which may not be saying much but at least we’re making progress, right? “Vaka. I’m Lilitha.” Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m normally a regular chatterbox, can’t get me to shut up, can barely get a word in edgewise. All bounce and enthusiasm. Today, though, none of that. Just the bare necessities, dragged out of my throat by force of will and nothing else.
Normally this would be the time for further introductions. I’m Lilitha of the Taiga, daughter of Romek and Maribel, sister to a great deal of sibings, only half of whose names I know. My home is so lovely, and if you’re looking for a place to stay I’m sure you’d be welcome. And so on, and so on. But I’m not Lilitha of the Taiga. I’m Lilitha of nowhere, and nowhere does not make for a very compelling invitation, does it now?
So clearly talking about myself is the wrong way to make this a conversation instead of an awkward greeting in passing. “Where are you from, Vaka?” I pause, considering the stupidity of that question. “Or I suppose. Where were you from, if you’re like most of the rest of us now and you’re currently from nowhere, or your new somewhere hasn’t been yours long enough to feel like a real answer to that question.” Well. I guess that is easier.
