"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
It was easy for her to pass through life unnoticed. She was not one of those girls that had been born radiant. There were some that seemed to shine even without a spotlight, and yet for all of the natural beauty that she possessed, Celestyn somehow seemed to be invisible. She hadn’t ever tried to change that, however, usually clinging to the outskirts and watching everyone from a safe, unsociable distance. There were a few things she had inherited from her mother, and a nearly crippling shyness was one of them. Even though she stayed far away and looked over the small gatherings of horses with an almost sense of longing, her fear of sounding like an uneducated, sheltered little girl kept her at bay. Besides, she had nothing interesting to offer them. She was plain. She was simple. She had no hidden secrets, no sense of mystery, no sparkling traits and she came from fairly humble linage.
She was just Celestyn, and that was the beginning, middle and end of it.
Despite being born in Beqanna, she felt like an intruder. No one here really knew her, and she didn’t know any of them. She walked slowly along a narrow deer-path that lead towards the Meadow, the spring sun straining through the leaves and sending shadow-dapples across her milk and honey patterned coat. Her black mane and tail were tangled with wind-knots and briars that had been embedded for who knows how long, which seemed to add a wild flair to her otherwise soft and almost meek appearance. Their voices come like a hum on the wind, and she follows the sound, her footsteps light and quiet, careful to not attract attention to herself. The trees are beginning to thin out now, and her pace slows, angling her direction away from the larger gatherings.
She settles within a small grove of trees and brush, watching them with amber-colored eyes, an almost inaudible sigh brushing past her lips as she finds herself wondering what it must be like to be able to just waltz into a conversation like it was nothing out of the ordinary.
They have been the shadows of the mountain rocks. They have been the shadows of wild forests, and hazel trees. They have been the shadows of powerful and terrible men, but they have always been shadows. Shadows are cold, and dark, but sometimes light is blinding. Cordis was blinding. Cordis was the sun, and loving her had felt like burning. Loving her had felt like her flesh and bones were twisting in opposite directions, wrung out, until everything left worth having was spilled out onto the beds of rivers they once cherished.
Loving her was too much.
Leaving her is worse.
Leaving her feels like leaving earth. Leaving her feels like leaving gravity. It feels like white, even as fragile stalks of green grass hug the curves of her hips and a hot, yellow sun beats hard along the ridge of her spine and leaves the flesh there warm to touch. Leaving her feels like the fog she wandered before the lighthouse led her home. Leaving her feels like dying. Leaving her feels like nothing.
But there are things that she knows about nothing.
Nothing, sometimes, is safer.
Numbness, sometimes, prevents hurt.
So, she follows the shadows along a narrow path that she has never known before today, thinking of nothing and ignoring the thousands of colours around her save for the white. Once, she was a ghost, and she had haunted all of the same paths, walked in all of the same footprints, ended in all of the same ways. White, sometimes, is safer. Nothing, sometimes, is kinder.
But eventually, like all good things, the nothingness ends.
She comes face to face with a stranger, close enough to feel her breath hot against her cheek.
“Are you alone?” She asks, even if it hurts.
Are you alone?
Even if her heart aches a thousand times for each of those four syllables. Even if her stomach twists, and she feels split open. Even if her throat feels as though she has swallowed gasoline and struck a match.
Because even the agony of remembering is better than nothing at all.
Once there was an old ocean where anyone who saw it would grow old with the sea
Her life so far has been quiet and peaceful. Her mornings had been spent in secluded meadows, where she chased butterflies and befriended the various woodland creatures. Her afternoons had been spent sprawled beneath a large oak tree, a safe haven in which to take a respite for the warm midday sun. But as her body had grown, so too had her sense of adventure, her bravery. She had begun to venture farther afield. So far, this had led only to delights. It had led to cool, bubbling springs and spirited games of chase through the woods. And it had led to bright, merry laughter and satiation of an eternally curious mind.
Today is no different. The little black girl sets out on her daily adventure, daring to wander farther afield than she ever had before. This is how she finds herself in the meadow. Wide, silver eyes take in the sights before. The large, sprawling meadow is a sight to behold to young eyes. The various equines dotting the vast expanse a wonder to a yearning mind. With everything set before her at once, she is not quite sure where to begin. She wants to approach them all, to ask why they are here, what wonderful things they have seen, what delightful things they have done. To her young, innocent mind, everything is good and right in this world. Evil, darkness, pain, sadness. None of these have yet shaped her life, skewed her view of reality.
So when her bright gaze lands upon the two mares, her curiosity is piqued. The tri-colored mare lingering deliberately in the shadow, making herself small and meek so as to avoid attention. The mare that approaches her, pain and sadness radiating from every line of her body. They draw her attention like magnets, compelling her to approach. She does not know why she feels this desire to make herself known to these two women, nor why she feels such a strong desire to aid them if she can. She knows only that this is what she must do.
And so, with curiosity and earnest kindness shining in her gaze, she approaches. Her small feet carry her easily, gracefully, across the short summer grass, bringing her to the two mares lingering in the shadows. As she nears, her lips curve into a smile, the simple act brightening her dark features - features that shine with youthful purity. Hello, she says softly, her gaze shifting easily between her companions. I am Elfeya.
The smile slips from her lips as her concerned gaze fixes upon the mare etched with emotion. And, in the innocence of youth, she asks perhaps the worst, most painful question of all. Why are you so sad?
Elfeya
healing daughter of bother and covet
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She is like a ghost, and she is next to her before Celestyn can even run. Not that she would. She is not scared of strangers, she is scared of talking to them. She is scared of sounding foolish, she is scared of putting herself out there and not being liked. But she is not scared of being physically hurt. That never crosses her mind. Being alone for most of her life she has learned to not be afraid of things like that. The things that go bump in the night are real, and she has faced them, or ran and escaped from them. It is the things that are not tangible that she finds frightening; what are they thinking? What thoughts run through their minds, do they look at her and think ‘how stupid’, ‘how ugly’?
The other mare looks like sorrow. Celestyn did not know that such emotions could have faces, but she sees it on her. It becomes her and seeps from her pores, and Celestyn finds it both intriguing and uncomfortable. What if she said the wrong thing and made everything worse? Her social interactions have been very limited thus far, and her fear of saying something ridiculous usually just forced her to stay quiet. Normally she didn’t mind, but right now, face to face with this mare, she wished she possessed the silver tongue that so many seemed to have, and that she could find all the right words to say. But instead she can only murmur quietly, ”I am always alone.” Her voice is lovely but there is a faint rasp to it from a lack of use, rising just slightly above a whisper.
And then there is another, and it is all Celestyn can do to keep from shrinking backwards. The darkness of the forest is behind her, waiting patiently, and that is her only comfort. She could leave if she needed to. But instead she stands there, rigid, the lines of her muscles etched beneath her paint-splattered coat, and she forces herself to make eye contact with the newcomer. She is young, and inwardly she already feels foolish for being so uncomfortable. It was silly to be intimidated by a child, especially one that was obviously friendly. She introduces herself, and in return she offers, ”My name is Celestyn.” Her gaze returns to the melancholy mare, realizing that she did not know her name. But then Elfeya asks her question and she bites her honey-colored lip nervously, unsure of whether the question was going to cause the other mare to unravel.
