09-25-2021, 01:10 PM
He smiles at her and says loyalty and she understands on some level.
(Is it not loyalty that has driven her north? Loyalty to the storm, the snow, the cold. The ice. She had pledged her allegiance to winter even before she’d taken her first breath. Their mother had carefully crafted each daughter to represent the seasons and she, the fourth daughter, had taken winter into her soul in the womb. And she would remain loyal.)
She shifts her weight and nods. She wonders if he’s died, this father figure, but she does not ask. It’s none of her business and she’s uncertain if it matters at all.
The pegasus standing before her is the commander of the north, she understands, and this is all that matters.
(How strange it is that someone not built for the cold would come to call it his.)
She draws in a long breath and glances back at him at his question, pulling the glacial stare from the mountains and shackling it to his face again.
“Yes,” she says, plainly. She is not demure, Camellia, she does not grin and ask him if he wouldn’t mind showing her more of his home. It is blunt. She belongs to the cold, the winter, and she wants to see the part of the Isle that might nurture her cold, cold heart.
Had she more energy, she could have brought the snow to herself. She could have blanketed this stretch of beach in ice, but she is tired. The snow continues to fall on her back, but only to protect the ice from the sun beating on them from overhead.
“Lead the way,” she says and then, perhaps remembering her manners, smiles again.
(Is it not loyalty that has driven her north? Loyalty to the storm, the snow, the cold. The ice. She had pledged her allegiance to winter even before she’d taken her first breath. Their mother had carefully crafted each daughter to represent the seasons and she, the fourth daughter, had taken winter into her soul in the womb. And she would remain loyal.)
She shifts her weight and nods. She wonders if he’s died, this father figure, but she does not ask. It’s none of her business and she’s uncertain if it matters at all.
The pegasus standing before her is the commander of the north, she understands, and this is all that matters.
(How strange it is that someone not built for the cold would come to call it his.)
She draws in a long breath and glances back at him at his question, pulling the glacial stare from the mountains and shackling it to his face again.
“Yes,” she says, plainly. She is not demure, Camellia, she does not grin and ask him if he wouldn’t mind showing her more of his home. It is blunt. She belongs to the cold, the winter, and she wants to see the part of the Isle that might nurture her cold, cold heart.
Had she more energy, she could have brought the snow to herself. She could have blanketed this stretch of beach in ice, but she is tired. The snow continues to fall on her back, but only to protect the ice from the sun beating on them from overhead.
“Lead the way,” she says and then, perhaps remembering her manners, smiles again.
@Nashua