She is lost, lost to the death of the island, and her own, too, but she cannot comprehend her own mortality - though, like a child, she understands that others can die. She does not know there is magic in her blood that prevents her from dying where others would were they as thin as she has been. She does not know that the separation between this life and the next has been worn so thin that others cross it at a whim, and this, perhaps, is best because it would only confuse her. Still, she has seen others die, and some dark, instinctual place inside her tells her wordlessly to be wary of death, because someday she, too, might see its face.
It is not likely, but she does not know, so she presses her thin frame against what she believes to be an island's wound as if the hard edges of her bones could staunch the flow, and she bleeds and she cries, unwary, until a voice seeps through the cracks of her skull and oh-so-slowly, those tear-drowned golden eyes open, unfocused and rolling as a piece of the dawn sky shudders out of time and pulls away from the dying day to question her. Her attention lingers over the seashell curl of his horns and the stripes that fall over his neck like the first rays of sunlight creeping over the edge of the sea, and she does not answer him, but she does stop, distracted.
There is a brief moment that almost seems like clarity when her sunshine eye find the shocking blue of his and her jawless head tilts like some unfinished, nightmare thing, pink tongue curled so its tip presses against the ridges of her upper palate, her teeth grown a touch too long, a touch too sharp, with nothing grind against and keep them flat. There is a moment, and then it is gone, swallowed again by sea-mist and confusion and a sort of vague awe. In the evening light, the winged stallion glows like a god of the sky and although she has already forgotten what he has asked of her, she knows that he has come almost certainly to punish her for some forgotten misdeed. Why else would she be crying? Why else would the taste of blood still ring bright on her tongue? Her white ears fall limp, angling oddly out to the side and her head drops low, just below her withers.
"I... s-- sothy."
And she is sorry, enough so that she stumbles over the word with its hard Rs that she cannot pronounce. Hot tears spring up again in her eyes, but she does not move away, not from the island's slow bleed nor from the spectral blue pegasus, though she seems to sink deeper into herself and the tangle of her mind the longer they stand in the silence of the dimming day.
It is not likely, but she does not know, so she presses her thin frame against what she believes to be an island's wound as if the hard edges of her bones could staunch the flow, and she bleeds and she cries, unwary, until a voice seeps through the cracks of her skull and oh-so-slowly, those tear-drowned golden eyes open, unfocused and rolling as a piece of the dawn sky shudders out of time and pulls away from the dying day to question her. Her attention lingers over the seashell curl of his horns and the stripes that fall over his neck like the first rays of sunlight creeping over the edge of the sea, and she does not answer him, but she does stop, distracted.
There is a brief moment that almost seems like clarity when her sunshine eye find the shocking blue of his and her jawless head tilts like some unfinished, nightmare thing, pink tongue curled so its tip presses against the ridges of her upper palate, her teeth grown a touch too long, a touch too sharp, with nothing grind against and keep them flat. There is a moment, and then it is gone, swallowed again by sea-mist and confusion and a sort of vague awe. In the evening light, the winged stallion glows like a god of the sky and although she has already forgotten what he has asked of her, she knows that he has come almost certainly to punish her for some forgotten misdeed. Why else would she be crying? Why else would the taste of blood still ring bright on her tongue? Her white ears fall limp, angling oddly out to the side and her head drops low, just below her withers.
"I... s-- sothy."
And she is sorry, enough so that she stumbles over the word with its hard Rs that she cannot pronounce. Hot tears spring up again in her eyes, but she does not move away, not from the island's slow bleed nor from the spectral blue pegasus, though she seems to sink deeper into herself and the tangle of her mind the longer they stand in the silence of the dimming day.
Crackjaw
@[Gale]