the Wind Dancer

The weight of the story, the memory, dragged her down. It was reflected upon her body, the changing skies above them and upon her pelt, the churning darkness of a storm brewing both overhead and deep within. The Sun no longer shone brightly upon them, but rather had been swallowed up by the storm, the darkness, its brilliant light snuffed out just by the simple whim of a girl. Though she prevented the weather from escalating further through a vague awareness of self-preservation, suddenly the humidity had risen, the air feeling heavier, thicker somehow. It was a pale representation of the darkness that weighed upon her soul, the abysmal cavern that had carved itself from the very fibres of her being to leave behind this vacant, terrifying shell of a creature in its wake.

Surprise coloured her features when she did raise her tiara to meet the brilliant gaze of the King, and while her posture stiffened at his approach, she did not retreat, though her frame shook with the tension of nerves firing and anxiety rising. Was she do broken that even the touch of another, however well meant, terrified her to this extent? Was she so ruined, trashed, wasted, that she could not wholly accept the comfort proffered by another, given to her only in goodness and kindness? No, the thought prodded at her anxious, stiff posture, you deserve happiness, it urged, wished and willed its meaning upon her. The memory of the pale unicorn lady's words rang in her crown even in the milliseconds it took for Kaj's warm muzzle to close the gap between them, and as he came closer, she did her best to et go, to take that step towards trust and kindness and warmth.

It was awkward, as she nervously extended her own muzzle to his, bumping against it perhaps slightly too abruptly, their breaths mingling and their eyes so close together she could feel the patter of his lashes against her cheek. Somehow, the warmth penetrated the hard exterior that had held her frame, and seemed to instead manifest itself upon her body in a softer, gentler manner. She was still a hardened warrior, a girl carved from muscle and sinew, but suddenly she was also a woman with curves and silken threads, fluttering wings and cerulean eyes. Such a simple touch, but there it was, and even as he pulled away, she found herself leaning ever so slightly closer to him, a half step taken by a single foreleg as her ears pricked and her eyes peered into the troubled depths of his own.

His deep voice rumbled, and she captured the words with more clarity than she had felt before. She heard, she felt the honesty behind them, and the realisation of such things were almost enough to make her weep - for what reason, the girl could not define right now, but the emotion was there, and thickly she swallowed it down. The humidity around them lifted somewhat, and now the sweat that dripped down from behind her ears hailed from the fire that their brief, simple touch had lit within her, filling the chasm of darkness with a pinpoint of light, a candle, a spark in a dark room. Desperately she wanted to hold onto it - onto him, the match, the fuel, the reason for this sensation within her.

So she listened to his story, and found herself walking in his past, understanding it, fearing it, loving it, knowing it - everything he spoke of, she felt, the strongest feelings she had allowed herself to feel in.. Too long. The girl wasn't ready for it, the onslaught of imagery and feelings - even as Kaj swallowed his tears, she felt them trickle down her cheeks, filling her eyes to their shining brims and leaving a dark path where they went. Though she did not sniffle, she breathed deeply, shuddering against herself with the urge to run forth and generate that touch again, light that fire within him as he had within her. He spoke of his arrival here, of his failed romances, and Cirrus visibly winced - she had never known romance, never yearned for it, never thought of the opposite sex (nor her own sex) in that way. She had never looked for love, never sought it out openly, and yet, she had loved in her lifetime, hadn't she?

The love she had with Sitka was something she couldn't explain, it simply was - he was so a part of her, and she of him, that love was impossible not to be present, though they never spoke of it or defined it - they never had to. Love for her father came from the admiration she had for him, for the way he chose to live his life - with honour, with valour, with love. He loved his family and his duty.. How could Cirrus ever be like him? For that was all she had wanted, to be like her father. Now, presented with the facts, she realised how much she had failed at that, failed him. It was enough to almost make her weep again.

The stallion before her mentioned her beloved's name, her Sitka, and spoke of him as if he knew him. Initially, rage would have sparked within the girl, but she was tempered enough with the happenings that she was able to hear his words, appreciate them, digest them and consider them. The girl blinked at the steed, tilting her tiara at him, as if seeing him anew for all the moments they had just spent together, and, upon making some kind of decision, stepped closer to him. Still too raw and foreign to the concept of affection, she could only offer her muzzle to him again, less awkward then before, and far more hopeful - far more exposed too, suddenly she felt like a filly without wings perched on the side of a cliff. Would her wings suddenly grow? Would he return what little she could offer? She never had had a way with words, never knew the right thing to say, she only knew how to fight, to use her body to get what she wanted.

She supposed she was still doing just that, even now.

sxc.hu | larfsalot