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
Please stay, for this fear it will not die
Down low, down amongst the thorn rows
Weeds grow, through the lilies and the vines
His legs carry him towards the place where she is rooted, carry his scent and his breath and his being just outside of her grasp, just so far the she can't reach out and touch him. Oh, how she wants to touch him. His mottled fur and rotting flesh are no deterrent, they barely even register in her mind - she thinks only of his touch and of his embrace, of how so very, very long it has been since her last encounter with him. With her true love.
Her true love.
His words shatter her fortifications, a pin pricking a solid wall of titanium and rendering it to dust. The trunks of her legs completely give out, and she stumbles, catching herself momentarily before completely losing her footing with her forelegs. Her knees slam into the river bed and her nostrils inhale the bristling water; she resurfaces coughing and bleeding green sap, both from her knees and from her eyes. The tears are sticky and move so slowly down her face, it's as if it will take hours for the first one to fall.
"Trekk," She says again, her voice tremulous and barely loud enough to hear over the sound of the river. The word is only one yet so much is said, the pain in the back of her throat, her guilt, her plea for forgiveness, the thousands of apologies she has yet to give but that he deserves, every single one of them he deserves. Noori steps to him, her once strong frame wracked with noiseless sobs and desperation - she reaches for him, her eyes pleading, begging, not knowing any better. She is a child before him, desolate and covered in filth. Her lips peel back in a grimace, her eyes clenching shut as the sobs overpower her.
It is half a minute before the sobs suddenly stop short, her eyes opened and her breath not coming at all. Stop, she tells herself. Stop, or you'll lose him again.
Her body had buckled in on itself, curling into a tight dogwood-clump of misery. She stretches out now, snot running down her alabaster muzzle, the sap-tears plentiful around her eyes, but barely any length down her face.
"I haven't been with anyone, Trekk, not anyone since you." And it's true, but she knows that her carousing with Sinder and Eight and all the others from that time beg of his heart to break. "Not since we made Takei, Trekk, not since that night." Her voice is pleading, desperate, inconsolable save for by the man before her. She reaches for him again, this time without the sobs but with all the same intensity and need.
"Baby, please, I'm here now.
I missed you, please, please come to me.
I'm right here, sweetheart, let me hold you - please Trekk, please baby, I won't hurt you again, I won't." And she knew it was true - but she had hurt him so much, so badly, that she knew he had every right to spurn her. Again and again and again. She knew.
As her gentling words tumble recklessly from her lips, medicinal plants sprout from the river bed and begin winding themselves around the stallion's abused legs. Yarrow, goldenrod, and calendula. They press tightly into his open wounds, splitting apart and spilling their salves and potions into the infections, cuts, scrapes, bruises. Her control over the plants is only subconscious, they physical embodiment of her will for him to heal and to be whole and well. She wants the world for him - but as they stand there, all she can give him is the temporary relief from the misery of his wounds.
noori