I was in the darkness, so darkness I became;
There is no memory of dying.
If it were, this would be easier. Horses died and came back even in her time, although with less frequency. It was rare, but not impossible.
But what Craft has is what seems like a dream – a hazy sunset memory of her impossible son cresting the dunes, eyes bright and orange, a crack of bone. But that dream – that memory – had bled seamlessly into when she awoke in the woods, disoriented.
She wants to quit thinking of it yet she can think of nothing else, a pounding echo of why, why, why in her mind, wanting to know where the deserts is, what’s happened, why she’s here in a place so familiar, yet so strange.
Yet the thought is not so crushing as she looks at Anatomy, a familiar port in this strange storm. It should be stranger still, to see her here, when years have passed since they were last together – but considering all the other strangeness, this is welcome.
The dark mare comes closer, and Craft lets her, falls into her embrace and it’s the first familiar thing she’s felt, her eyes close and she inhales, breathing in the scent of her that reminds her of the deserts.
“I don’t know,” she answers, honest, and here, in the familiar, some of the fear she works so hard to swallow surfaces, “I was dreaming – I think – and then I woke up. I keep looking for the deserts, but…”
Those she had asked had looked at her quizzically, had said where? or, worse, it’s gone. These are answers she refuses to accept, so she keeps asking the question.
Craft
@[anatomy]