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There is a certain despondency that always seems to cling to the roots of mountains, a morose shadow of blackness and unsmiling diligence. Weathered by a thousand storms and slung forth from ruptures of the earth, there is something decidedly commanding about the erratic surface of rock, pillars lacerating the depths of the skies, stark and defiant and ever unyielding. Safety, some might dig from these shadows while they taste like dread and abyss to others. In truth, these colossal sentinels are merely rock and ice and whatever meaning they might be filigreed in will always be affixed upon their stalwart shoulders by the vain and fanciful creatures that look upon them and dwell in the nooks and crannies of their underbellies.
Perception, in its very essence, is a complex, undulating thing, and it should not be a surprise that the two perceive the majestic backdrop they come unto quite differently. “Thank you, Lena,” Iyana murmurs while glancing upwards at the colossus whose still and unlikely presence there – so perfect against the grim imperfections of the mountain – she cannot understand. She does not lament it, however, and leaves the statue outside further contemplation, finding herself slung from ear to hip with the heavy burden of memory. Inconspicuous as it may seem and lacking of great deeds, her past is riddled with the presence of mountains. North-born and snow-cold the young mare is fostered harshly by the unforgiving mother of orphanhood and silent rock. Despite her famine and despair, in-between whipping gusts of snow and the horror of weathering storms; storms that accommodated and amplified her loneliness by illuminating the dark mountainsides and conjuring all sorts of wraiths and monsters from within their silent troves of callous mystery, Iyana never felt truly alone, ever protected by the mountains. And now she finds herself in that perceived shadow of despondency again – fearful as a child might be of the stern father’s hand but equally comforted by the familiar crispness of air, the bleakness of light spilling and refracting against uncompromising rock. She considers the question for a moment, and knows that the mountains will not aid her in finding a suitable answer. She also considers Lena and the vocation she has chosen for herself, or perhaps been forcefully slung into, albeit Iyana doubts that such would be the case – she wonders why and how but does not voice that curiosity. Just as the Moorish nature that the mountains harness, Lena seems to be riddled with the qualities that would befit a healer. That certainty, and the way she seems anchored to the rock of equal parts benevolence and stability, of course – there is an explanation for everything, a pattern wherein all parts fit. “I’m not a fighter,” she admits with a shrug that bears neither shame nor pride, “I fight better than most if I must but I take no pleasure in violence,” such fancies are reserved for the injudicious, she wants to add, but decides that it would be too unwise, too soon. Instead she slips a short pause between them, glancing down at Imogen who moves with the lightness of a whirlwind. “I do not condone thievery because I was never taught how to appreciate the alleged subtlety of stealing things and I do not know how to build things either. I do however speak well and they say I’ve got a mind on me, so I guess I am fashioned into the fate of scholars,” this she says matter-of-factly as she looks back at Lena, her eyes aglow with a mischievous smile.
“Healing, I think, is not a task that would suit me too well – I tend to break things into a million little pieces rather than mending that which is broken.”
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