there's no remedy for memory; wound

[wound]

W ound knows well of the homes that are not true homes (where her roots temporarily secure themselves in order to stay alive) — her entire young life had consisted of them. Perhaps the only place she could call home in those days had been the embraces of her brothers with their slick and skinny and irreparable arms. But the physicality of their home (of brooks with paths she’d memorized and trees she’d sleep under and trails she’d race along) changed depending on the time of year. The scents of her brothers are the comforts of her childhood. When the silvery mare finds herself overwhelmed with her Tephra life she seeks out the corners of Beqanna that feel familiar. Sometimes she catches the barest hints of her siblings, still living among the wild bramble and untrekked forests, and her heartbeat quickens within her chest. It is one of such days when Wound reaches the fringes of the Meadow. She’s followed a familiar scent to this area (a scent that reminds her of hazy days and cobwebby trails and hushed, defensive voices) and her coffee-brown eyes are rapidly scanning the clearing. Wound is doubtful her brothers would emerge from their hiding in such a manner as she had, when she had boldly stepped into the Field and thereby boldly stepped into her future. But her thoughts twist toward the possibility of her mother seeking out the groin of her sire once more to perhaps produce another sibling. It is while her eyes are scanning the Meadow that the familiar scent draws closer. The mare is a hazy version of a distant memory, one that Wound can’t identify whether it was a dream or a reality. The dark mare has a similar shape as her own (perhaps not down to the specifics, but neither of them look as though they are crafted from good bloodlines and a royal pedigree) and the silver bay’s eyes immediately alight with warmth. She can’t deny the irony of it — first meeting Hephaestus in the woodland and now meeting this unique mare. A mare who not only recognizes Wound herself but also remembers her brothers. “Yes, they are.” There’s a sunny smile on her face at the mentioning of her siblings, though it is darkened slightly by nostalgia. A bitter pang dances against her heart for a moment before she forces her thoughts toward the conversation at hand before she enters a mind-track she only dares walk through when she is alone on Tephra’s sulfuric shores. “There’s no need to apologize. My name’s Wound.” Her eyes take in Erinys’ figure, not to curiously prod at her deformities but rather to see if it will jog her memory. There’s a faint remembrance, curling like a wisp of smoke at the edge of her brain. “I do remember meeting you, but I must have been a lot younger than.” Her mouth splits into a gentle smile. “How have you been?”

credit to nat of adoxography.

@[Erinys]