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01-23-2015, 12:15 AM
The thunder-bird perched on Rasta's back continued to fret despite the attempted reassurances of the hawk. It was strange that he should feel such a strong kinship with one he had only just met, but his adoration of Rasta paralleled his bonded's - so would it not make sense for him to also care for the young companion? It was not, perhaps, his own emotion, but rather another way for he angel's feelings to run through him, tying them ever closer and deeper within one another. At times, he is convinced that he is the only one who truly understands the dove, for only he can reside in her mind as much as she; only he can feel the depths of her worries, the strength of her loyalties, the truth of her love. Others can only guess, no matter how much she tells them - but he lives it. That makes this all the worse for the zephyr, poised precariously in a constant state of concern. He would spring into the air in a heartbeat if she would only give the order, though a large part of him balks at the thought of leaving her alone. Especially now. But she is incoherent, so much so that his mind-speech cannot penetrate the fevered panic that has risen in the Transcended. He can do her no good here, can do nothing to fix her. Only a healer can do that, though she has thus refused his offers to try and find one. Of course, he probably wouldn't have done any good. No one would have been able to understand him. But he would have tried. The angel sags against the roots that have risen to shield her from an impromptu tumble to the ground. Somewhere in her mind she recognizes that she has been beaten, that she must give in to Rasta's good sense in order to make it home. It will take longer - too much longer, she is sure - but is this how she wants her children to see her, after several months' separation? Is this the shape she wants to be in when she sees Gaucho again? No - no, far better to heal, to tend her wounds and take pride in her appearance again. She is still lovely, the crystalline dove, but it is haunting and ghastly now, an eerie, broken kind of beauty that repels more than it attracts. "Go," she breathes, more mind-speech than actual verbalization; Astraeus launches himself from Rasta's withers into the air, sparking more than ever now as he becomes a beacon to light the way back to his injured bonded. The mare, on the other hand, falls silent, grateful for the roots holding her up, hating her weakness, waiting for assistance. @[Rasta], @[Africa] "Talk talk talk." |
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