The broken girl stands still and quiet for long enough that it almost seems as if she has forgotten him again, even though the glossy yellow of her gaze appears to rest on his nightsky coat. Only her ears seem to move, and they flick as if they are stuttering, in a repeating but unintentional pattern. It is a reflection of her thoughts, forming oddly in colors and shapes, with soft, undefined edges. Somewhere in her past, grass waves at eye level and there is a sense of peace and of goodness. She cannot place this memory, it might have been yesterday and it might have been years ago, and she does not remember, but this is what his mention of a mate and children and home stirs in her breast.
It is not her home. She has never had one, she has never had a family, at least, not any whose faces find their way to her through the dark and baffling fog of her mind, but there is some understanding of this concept, this idea of belonging, and even she, destined to forget so much, knows enough to clasp the feeling firmly, greedily. One slender foreleg extend towards the stallion with a more halting, trepidatious, energy than when she approached him before because she is trying so very hard to hold onto the moment, like a marionette, stilted, uncoordinated, Crackjaw draws up beside him and presses her nose against his shoulder, the sharp edges of her over-grown teeth hidden, her tongue tucked neatly to the roof of her mouth like a monster tamed.
“Yeh!” Yes, she would like to see where his family spends their days, warmed by the tropical sun and the blacksand beaches. His skin is warm like the sand underfoot, but smoother, and her grip on the present wavers dangerously, ready to lose itself on the slick summer hairs and slide down them into some other reality. Tension settles across her brow. What is she agreeing to? It almost doesn't matter, she remembers feeling happy a moment ago and tilts her head away from him, tries to smile (and fails, of course.)
"Clackyaw," she draws her nose to her chest as if to gesture at herself, "Ah called Clackyaw," it's a name she can't even say, let alone remember how she came by it, or how the memory of it is burnt so clearly into her mind. She certainly does not realize that if the pronunciation of it is a struggle for her, understanding it must be nearly impossible for others. She has had so little opportunity to give her name to anybody, but she has practiced its shape on her tongue a thousand times just the same.
"Yuh? This land called anything? I like it heah."
It is not her home. She has never had one, she has never had a family, at least, not any whose faces find their way to her through the dark and baffling fog of her mind, but there is some understanding of this concept, this idea of belonging, and even she, destined to forget so much, knows enough to clasp the feeling firmly, greedily. One slender foreleg extend towards the stallion with a more halting, trepidatious, energy than when she approached him before because she is trying so very hard to hold onto the moment, like a marionette, stilted, uncoordinated, Crackjaw draws up beside him and presses her nose against his shoulder, the sharp edges of her over-grown teeth hidden, her tongue tucked neatly to the roof of her mouth like a monster tamed.
“Yeh!” Yes, she would like to see where his family spends their days, warmed by the tropical sun and the blacksand beaches. His skin is warm like the sand underfoot, but smoother, and her grip on the present wavers dangerously, ready to lose itself on the slick summer hairs and slide down them into some other reality. Tension settles across her brow. What is she agreeing to? It almost doesn't matter, she remembers feeling happy a moment ago and tilts her head away from him, tries to smile (and fails, of course.)
"Clackyaw," she draws her nose to her chest as if to gesture at herself, "Ah called Clackyaw," it's a name she can't even say, let alone remember how she came by it, or how the memory of it is burnt so clearly into her mind. She certainly does not realize that if the pronunciation of it is a struggle for her, understanding it must be nearly impossible for others. She has had so little opportunity to give her name to anybody, but she has practiced its shape on her tongue a thousand times just the same.
"Yuh? This land called anything? I like it heah."
@[Aedan] edited for HTML sorry lol