Shipka
She hadn't gotten in as much trouble as she thought she would. When she returned to her mother's side, the speckled mare had barely had breath to speak, let alone to scold or shout, and only hugged her child close. Perhaps because, by the time Shipka had finally clambered down off the solitary Mountain's broad side, more than a day of frantic searching had elapsed for Yggdrasil. For her daughter, it had been tedium and hunger and gravity that pulled her down.
How did you get lost on the Mountain? Mama had asked, but it was daylight and Shipka could not show her. Instead she yawned and buried her head into the space behind the mare's elbow, pale eyes fluttering shut against the queries. By the following evening, all is forgiven, and she is adventuring again, searching the skies for the first thin stars of night. Even now, she casts an eye up at the jagged peak and remembers how close the stars were, how they were clear and bright, and she thinks she might have stayed up there in the cold and silence if her belly had not driven her back among the mortals below. She might have stayed among the stars and the fairies and the cold that struck through her as if she were nothing but a silk spiderweb clinging to a branch. The wind in the meadow doesn't ring with the same clarity, rustling softly in the hardy grasses, and the stars feel distant and remote, for all that she can pull them down around her.
Small ears flutter against the ticklish breeze and Shipka presses close the the border of the meadow where the soil grows sandy and red, humming softly to herself as she kicks at the dry ground. The air here is warm and hints at the arid nature of Pangea, breathes its heat into the common land and wards off the worst of the winter snow that plagues the North, but it comes with a dulling red dust that coats the rocks and grasses an the few low trees that persist here. It makes her sneeze.
And sneeze.
And sneeze.
And when she finally looks up again, her eyes bleary with tears and squinting and her small nose twisted to one side as if only just holding back the outburst, she finds she is not as alone as she thought, the glowing white shape of a mare burning softly in her eyes. In the darkening meadow she is as bright as starlight and pulls Shipka to her side without trying, the dark filly drawing close enough to press her muzzle against that pale shoulder. It leaves a smear of red dust.
"Oh." she says, chargrined, looking up at the purple-eyed mare, "I'm sorry."
Photo by guille pozzi on UnsplashHow did you get lost on the Mountain? Mama had asked, but it was daylight and Shipka could not show her. Instead she yawned and buried her head into the space behind the mare's elbow, pale eyes fluttering shut against the queries. By the following evening, all is forgiven, and she is adventuring again, searching the skies for the first thin stars of night. Even now, she casts an eye up at the jagged peak and remembers how close the stars were, how they were clear and bright, and she thinks she might have stayed up there in the cold and silence if her belly had not driven her back among the mortals below. She might have stayed among the stars and the fairies and the cold that struck through her as if she were nothing but a silk spiderweb clinging to a branch. The wind in the meadow doesn't ring with the same clarity, rustling softly in the hardy grasses, and the stars feel distant and remote, for all that she can pull them down around her.
Small ears flutter against the ticklish breeze and Shipka presses close the the border of the meadow where the soil grows sandy and red, humming softly to herself as she kicks at the dry ground. The air here is warm and hints at the arid nature of Pangea, breathes its heat into the common land and wards off the worst of the winter snow that plagues the North, but it comes with a dulling red dust that coats the rocks and grasses an the few low trees that persist here. It makes her sneeze.
And sneeze.
And sneeze.
And when she finally looks up again, her eyes bleary with tears and squinting and her small nose twisted to one side as if only just holding back the outburst, she finds she is not as alone as she thought, the glowing white shape of a mare burning softly in her eyes. In the darkening meadow she is as bright as starlight and pulls Shipka to her side without trying, the dark filly drawing close enough to press her muzzle against that pale shoulder. It leaves a smear of red dust.
"Oh." she says, chargrined, looking up at the purple-eyed mare, "I'm sorry."
@[Islas]