Sol
What am I supposed to do when I want to talk about peace and understanding
But you only understand the language of violence?
But you only understand the language of violence?
“Do we have family?” Sol asked on a warm evening an eon ago.
They stood on a hill side by side, mother and daughter, admiring the golden rays of the setting sun; the stars were already poking holes through the sky, she could make out the faint outline of the moon among the pinks, oranges, and purples and didn’t miss the wistful look her mother had given it. As if she missed someone.
“We do.”
Sol blinked her mismatched eyes, having half-expected her mother to admit to being an orphan. Instead, she began reciting history—their history—and the young foal had listened closely to every tale she told with wild and wide-eyed fascination. Once she finished as much as she was willing to discuss in one evening, Sol’s mind whirred with a million different questions but all she managed to blurt out was: “Do they know me?”
“No, they do not.”
The roan filly’s ears splayed out to the sides and her head lowered slightly despite her best efforts.
Nocturnal snorted, trying not to laugh at her daughter’s expense. “Blood calls to blood, little one,” she teased, reaching over to bump her shoulder. “You’ll run into one of us eventually, there’s lots of us.”
~
Blood had certainly been calling to blood since The Chamber’s revival.
Sol hummed, trying to ignore the raven that was squawking above her; a few hours before that, she had made the mistake of squinting her eyes and following him from branch to branch with her gaze. For whatever reason, the surly blackbird had decided he didn’t like her after that, and he had been harassing her for the better part of the day.
“Quiet, please,” she said, stopping to stare up at him. “I didn’t mean to disturb you and I just want to—”
Suddenly, one of his comrades decided to divebomb her and she snorted in frustration—but then came the second, and the third, and the fourth, and so on, each of them pecking at her head, neck, and ears. She swung her head around wildly and narrowly avoided one of the birds as it went for her eyes. “Stop!” She shouted, her bottom lip starting to quiver though she tried her hardest to not start to cry. “I. Said. STOP!”
Hundreds of thousands of thin, sharp, white bony spikes grew from her flesh and as the birds dove down, they impaled themselves one right after the other. The air fell silent after one last surprised caw and Sol stood still, breathing heavily, her eyes wide and her mouth open in disbelief. Slowly, the spikes retracted themselves back down into her skin and slid easily out of their little bodies. They fell to the ground, each a duller thud than the last, their beady black eyes shiny and lifeless.
“I-I didn’t mean to, I don’t know—I don’t know how, I don’t know what I did…” She stood frozen in shock, breathing heavily.No Crosses Count x Nocturnal
They stood on a hill side by side, mother and daughter, admiring the golden rays of the setting sun; the stars were already poking holes through the sky, she could make out the faint outline of the moon among the pinks, oranges, and purples and didn’t miss the wistful look her mother had given it. As if she missed someone.
“We do.”
Sol blinked her mismatched eyes, having half-expected her mother to admit to being an orphan. Instead, she began reciting history—their history—and the young foal had listened closely to every tale she told with wild and wide-eyed fascination. Once she finished as much as she was willing to discuss in one evening, Sol’s mind whirred with a million different questions but all she managed to blurt out was: “Do they know me?”
“No, they do not.”
The roan filly’s ears splayed out to the sides and her head lowered slightly despite her best efforts.
Nocturnal snorted, trying not to laugh at her daughter’s expense. “Blood calls to blood, little one,” she teased, reaching over to bump her shoulder. “You’ll run into one of us eventually, there’s lots of us.”
~
Blood had certainly been calling to blood since The Chamber’s revival.
Sol hummed, trying to ignore the raven that was squawking above her; a few hours before that, she had made the mistake of squinting her eyes and following him from branch to branch with her gaze. For whatever reason, the surly blackbird had decided he didn’t like her after that, and he had been harassing her for the better part of the day.
“Quiet, please,” she said, stopping to stare up at him. “I didn’t mean to disturb you and I just want to—”
Suddenly, one of his comrades decided to divebomb her and she snorted in frustration—but then came the second, and the third, and the fourth, and so on, each of them pecking at her head, neck, and ears. She swung her head around wildly and narrowly avoided one of the birds as it went for her eyes. “Stop!” She shouted, her bottom lip starting to quiver though she tried her hardest to not start to cry. “I. Said. STOP!”
Hundreds of thousands of thin, sharp, white bony spikes grew from her flesh and as the birds dove down, they impaled themselves one right after the other. The air fell silent after one last surprised caw and Sol stood still, breathing heavily, her eyes wide and her mouth open in disbelief. Slowly, the spikes retracted themselves back down into her skin and slid easily out of their little bodies. They fell to the ground, each a duller thud than the last, their beady black eyes shiny and lifeless.
“I-I didn’t mean to, I don’t know—I don’t know how, I don’t know what I did…” She stood frozen in shock, breathing heavily.
sol
[@Dem]