06-09-2020, 07:13 AM
l e p i s
I never thought it was a question of whether
I watch him as he leaps to his feet, my blue-grey eyes bright. He is bold - more than just my confidence aiding him - and I smile proudly. Like all of my other children, he is wonderful. I had been told once that every mother thinks this, and it only makes sense. Of course other mothers would mollify themselves with such lies; they were not fortunate enough to have my children. I can admit, if only to myself, that I had worried Wolfbane might be able to take some credit for their creation, but as I look down at Kestrell and remember (perhaps foggily) how very homely Neverwhere’s son had been, I am able to know for certain that, yes: my children are the very best.
Once standing, he waits a moment to steady himself, and I raise one hoof to take a step forward, closer to my youngest.
There is a distant quake, a trembling in the earth, and the wind picks up.
I raise my head, breathing deeply. It does not smell like a summer storm, drawn in on the night winds. What then, I wonder, glancing back down at Kestrell. Only then do I see the dust, glittering, and the way it seems to be caught up in my newborn’s mane. It reaches me a moment later, intangible, but tasting of magic and the mountain.
Something changes when it brushes past me, a weight settles - or perhaps lifts? - but after a second breath I feel no different at all.
When he falls, I keep a straight face, knowing that the concern that clenched at me would model his reaction. There is a long moment of quiet, and then he laughs. I smile as well then. “I did see that,”I tell him with a fond smile, stepping closer to touch where his mane glitters. I bend to catch the black feather before it can drift away, and I tuck it between my own feathers for safekeeping.
“Now stand up again, and try taking a few steps. You can use your wings for balance.” I touch them gently, the soft patterns of the downy feathers hinting at the adult pattern to come. They are unlike any of his siblings, but then – none of them are like any of the others either. I remember Gale asking me why that was, once, and I had been unable to give him an answer beyond: Magic. It explained so much about our lives, from the star like glittering of Kestrell’s mane that I kiss gently before pulling away, to the sensation of something strange having been given to me – or perhaps taken? – by the same wave of dust from the Mountain.
@[Kestrell]
Once standing, he waits a moment to steady himself, and I raise one hoof to take a step forward, closer to my youngest.
There is a distant quake, a trembling in the earth, and the wind picks up.
I raise my head, breathing deeply. It does not smell like a summer storm, drawn in on the night winds. What then, I wonder, glancing back down at Kestrell. Only then do I see the dust, glittering, and the way it seems to be caught up in my newborn’s mane. It reaches me a moment later, intangible, but tasting of magic and the mountain.
Something changes when it brushes past me, a weight settles - or perhaps lifts? - but after a second breath I feel no different at all.
When he falls, I keep a straight face, knowing that the concern that clenched at me would model his reaction. There is a long moment of quiet, and then he laughs. I smile as well then. “I did see that,”I tell him with a fond smile, stepping closer to touch where his mane glitters. I bend to catch the black feather before it can drift away, and I tuck it between my own feathers for safekeeping.
“Now stand up again, and try taking a few steps. You can use your wings for balance.” I touch them gently, the soft patterns of the downy feathers hinting at the adult pattern to come. They are unlike any of his siblings, but then – none of them are like any of the others either. I remember Gale asking me why that was, once, and I had been unable to give him an answer beyond: Magic. It explained so much about our lives, from the star like glittering of Kestrell’s mane that I kiss gently before pulling away, to the sensation of something strange having been given to me – or perhaps taken? – by the same wave of dust from the Mountain.
