06-18-2021, 02:12 PM
Cross, he says, and then goes on to add that he had not meant to disappoint her. And she peers up at him with those soft green eyes, confused.
How had he known that she had been disappointed?
Had it been obvious in the way she had surrendered to the pond’s pull? The way she had sunk beneath the water’s surface? (She knows so little about magic, this child confined to this specific body of water, ostracized to this darkness. She is oblivious to the way some creatures can rifle through thoughts of others just as easily as they can rifle through their own.)
Sickle, the blue filly says, dividing the nymph’s attention again. And Asterope grins, she cannot help it. Because the filly’s happiness rolls off her in waves, her enthusiasm seeping up under the nymph’s skin, burrowing between her ribs.
“Cross, Sickle,” she repeats, smiling softly. Her gaze lingers briefly on the filly before she shifts her focus back to the colt. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, forgiving him, “no one ever does.” In fact, she thinks, her father must be the only one who knows that she is here. Does her mother know that she is here? She must not, otherwise she would have come for her, wouldn’t she have?
But Cross asks what they want to do and Sickle is quick with an answer.
(Swimming! Her favorite!)
“Of course,” she concedes, turning to swim away from the pond’s edge, allowing them room to join her in the water.
How had he known that she had been disappointed?
Had it been obvious in the way she had surrendered to the pond’s pull? The way she had sunk beneath the water’s surface? (She knows so little about magic, this child confined to this specific body of water, ostracized to this darkness. She is oblivious to the way some creatures can rifle through thoughts of others just as easily as they can rifle through their own.)
Sickle, the blue filly says, dividing the nymph’s attention again. And Asterope grins, she cannot help it. Because the filly’s happiness rolls off her in waves, her enthusiasm seeping up under the nymph’s skin, burrowing between her ribs.
“Cross, Sickle,” she repeats, smiling softly. Her gaze lingers briefly on the filly before she shifts her focus back to the colt. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, forgiving him, “no one ever does.” In fact, she thinks, her father must be the only one who knows that she is here. Does her mother know that she is here? She must not, otherwise she would have come for her, wouldn’t she have?
But Cross asks what they want to do and Sickle is quick with an answer.
(Swimming! Her favorite!)
“Of course,” she concedes, turning to swim away from the pond’s edge, allowing them room to join her in the water.
Drops of dew from their hair
@[Cross] @[Sickle]