07-07-2015, 10:57 PM
what is dead may never die;
No one has taught the boy manners, but thankfully, no one has taught the girl manners either – or at least, not any kind of conventional manners. In some ways she's just as newborn as him; the world she has known is either fading, faded, or was simply a dream. She isn't sure which, but she isn't bothered by her uncertainty either.
She watches him approach, her icy eyes watching him with perfect neutrality. She is not interested, not curious, at least not in a normal equine capacity. To her, he is just another creature, just another thing that will wash over her like the tide, leaving her with inevitable shells, pockmarks and remnants of everything that is this new world of hers.
The crunching of the snow beneath his hooves is impossibly loud to her ears. She can hear him in her bones, and she wonders if everything is this sharp, this raw here. She can only remember sounds that were muffled, noises muted against some kind of impossible vastness. She is not sure which she prefers.
hi, and she tilts her head, regarding him with curiosity. He's so tiny, she thinks, but then realizes she has little concept of her own age. "Hi." she repeats, her voice a strange combination of lyrical and flat. She is like the voice that reads an audiobook, so perfectly bland and yet somehow enthralling.
Her eyes flick over his small body, noting every detail: the way he holds himself as though almost shy, the way his bright colors distinguish him against the snow around, the way his legs and his head seem ever so slightly too large for his body. Gangly and ungainly, she decides. Had she ever been like that? Her face is smooth as she turns her head the other way and sighs.
"Are you cold?" She could have asked a million things, and maybe she would have if she'd known about (or, for that matter, cared about) social graces. But she is either deliberately or accidentally ignorant, plunging forward by simply asking what's on her mind.
As if to answer her own question, she shakes snow from her back with the graceful nonchalance of a bird shifting its feathers.
She watches him approach, her icy eyes watching him with perfect neutrality. She is not interested, not curious, at least not in a normal equine capacity. To her, he is just another creature, just another thing that will wash over her like the tide, leaving her with inevitable shells, pockmarks and remnants of everything that is this new world of hers.
The crunching of the snow beneath his hooves is impossibly loud to her ears. She can hear him in her bones, and she wonders if everything is this sharp, this raw here. She can only remember sounds that were muffled, noises muted against some kind of impossible vastness. She is not sure which she prefers.
hi, and she tilts her head, regarding him with curiosity. He's so tiny, she thinks, but then realizes she has little concept of her own age. "Hi." she repeats, her voice a strange combination of lyrical and flat. She is like the voice that reads an audiobook, so perfectly bland and yet somehow enthralling.
Her eyes flick over his small body, noting every detail: the way he holds himself as though almost shy, the way his bright colors distinguish him against the snow around, the way his legs and his head seem ever so slightly too large for his body. Gangly and ungainly, she decides. Had she ever been like that? Her face is smooth as she turns her head the other way and sighs.
"Are you cold?" She could have asked a million things, and maybe she would have if she'd known about (or, for that matter, cared about) social graces. But she is either deliberately or accidentally ignorant, plunging forward by simply asking what's on her mind.
As if to answer her own question, she shakes snow from her back with the graceful nonchalance of a bird shifting its feathers.
but rises again
Aletheia
harder and stronger