11-17-2019, 03:19 PM
He is not made of wild things.
And yet. And yet, there is a stirring in his chest all the same. An urge to wander. An urge to separate himself from his twin brother (not because he does not love his brother but because he thinks that some semblance of independence might do him some good).
There is some place that he lives. With his brother and his mother and his sister, too. But he has never bothered to learn the name of it. He has not bothered to learn the names of most things. Except the plants that he loves so much. He has created names for the ones he doesn’t know, crooning softly to them as he bends them to his will.
He grins to himself now, as he tells the vines to climb up his shoulder to his mane, where they tangle themselves into his hair. He laughs out loud as they tickle down the length of his spine and curl themselves around the base of his tail. How he loves them, his plants.
The grass holds no special place in his heart, though. He keeps it separate from his plants, otherwise it would pain him so much to eat it that he would surely starve to death!
He wanders down to the river now, a quiet hum thrumming in his throat as he goes. He sees her before she sees him. There is a kind of fervor in her thoughts, it pulses in his own chest as he approaches her. He is quiet, careful not to startle her. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks, his head tilted, that same smile still tying up the corners of his mouth as he studies her.
And yet. And yet, there is a stirring in his chest all the same. An urge to wander. An urge to separate himself from his twin brother (not because he does not love his brother but because he thinks that some semblance of independence might do him some good).
There is some place that he lives. With his brother and his mother and his sister, too. But he has never bothered to learn the name of it. He has not bothered to learn the names of most things. Except the plants that he loves so much. He has created names for the ones he doesn’t know, crooning softly to them as he bends them to his will.
He grins to himself now, as he tells the vines to climb up his shoulder to his mane, where they tangle themselves into his hair. He laughs out loud as they tickle down the length of his spine and curl themselves around the base of his tail. How he loves them, his plants.
The grass holds no special place in his heart, though. He keeps it separate from his plants, otherwise it would pain him so much to eat it that he would surely starve to death!
He wanders down to the river now, a quiet hum thrumming in his throat as he goes. He sees her before she sees him. There is a kind of fervor in her thoughts, it pulses in his own chest as he approaches her. He is quiet, careful not to startle her. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks, his head tilted, that same smile still tying up the corners of his mouth as he studies her.