Rapture
somewhere between the sand and the stardust
It is clear from even first glance that Titanya has a strength and power Rapture simply lacks. In perhaps one small way, they are similar. Similar in the way they cleave from their families. The blue mare loves hers dearly, but she holds no similarities to them. She and her twin had shared a womb, as close as two can be without physical connection. Her mother and father had loved her, protected her, even if they were not so demonstrative of it. But that is where the familial connection ends.
Truth be told, she is far more a product of her grandparents than of her parents. Of her grandmother, the woman Titanya so reminds her of. If in appearance only.
Perhaps she is not so very out of place as she has always supposed. Only a generation misplaced.
If Rapture only cared to take a peek, she could see into the Titanya’s past, could find her secrets and the ways in which they are similar despite their obvious differences. But Rapture is not her mother. The guilt of prying into secrets not meant for her is too much against the regrets she already carries heavy in her heart. She would leave such things where they were meant to be, lost in time and forgotten by those for whom they were not meant.
The blue and white mare offers only a faint smile to the woman’s admonishment. Truth be told, she might never have found the strength of will to rise from that current had she not come along. So she is happy enough to stand upon the river bank, water trickling down her flank as a subtle breeze begins the stiffen the mottled locks pressed against her damp neck.
But then the mare asks “In what way?” and Rapture blinks. She hadn’t expected the question, though she supposes she should have. They had never met before, so it would only stand to reason she would be curious about the reason for her statement. Of course, she had barely recognized the words even as she’d said them. It is a plague of hers, to speak her thoughts so plainly and without forethought.
She does not see the girl’s distress, does not recognize the dread at what she believes her answer to be. Instead, her blue, blue eyes grow distant, a bit hazy as a wistful smile touches her lips. “You look like my grandmother,” she finally answers, her voice a mere thread of sound.
Suddenly she comes to her senses once more, blinking her eyes rapidly the clear the hazy sense of longing. “But I suppose it is only fancy,” she continues, her voice louder now, lyrical against the the sounds of the river. Her pale eyes focus on the other mare once more, soft understanding in their depths. “You are troubled though, I think.”
Not truely expecting a response, Rapture turns to face the river, features taking on a contemplative cast. “Only the troubled ever seem to seek the river,” she adds more softly, truth and confession in her tone.
there is a pulse that echoes of you and I
