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“Missing friends.”
The two simple words fall on Larkspur softly, as genuine and warm in verse as the mare they came from, breaking past the cold night air with the tenderness of the bay mare’s sincerity, the conviction of her melodic whimsy that made the dark mare think of lighter hearts and purer minds. Curiosity begins to kindle in her waking thoughts like the growing of a fire, and again some of the fierceness leaves her, some of the cold disinterest fades into the darkness with the shadows, replaced by an expression of gentler origins. Around them the Aurora Borealis continues to cast its star strewn light in soft slivers of silver and smoky white, painting them in liquid tendrils of star frost, fleeting arrays of a night time fantasy. Larkspur remains silent for a moment, unsure of what to say to the mare, unpracticed in the ways of comforting and reassurance. The puzzled contemplation that plagues her is apparent as she watches Lena, words battling to breech the wall of her hesitation, grasping desperately at straws in attempts to find some form of freedom.
“I’m sorry.” Larkspur is not one to dwell in the corridors and palaces of empathy; she has not been of the type to linger in the snares of the sympathetic or understanding. To be emotionally invested in anyone but herself was something foreign, dangerous and precarious. It was less hassle to not worry, to not waste time attempting to gain the confidence and trust of an individual to only be disappointed, or led astray. Emotional investment was a hazardous cliff to scale, an irreversible allowance that gave someone else a piece of you to abuse and misuse as they wished. And so the dark mare kept to herself, the utmost example of self-preservation at its finest. To be alone is the only moment in one’s lifetime that might grace them with the any form or function of invincibility, but even then the heart remains the weakest point.
Lena is different though. Larkspur can sense the goodness in her, the radiating, undeniable glow of warmth and benevolence that seems to sing in the depths of her eyes, linger in the lyrical songs of her words. And so perhaps the stormy mare is persuaded to appeal to this meeting with a different set of expectations. For despite all her ferocity, her sometimes vapid personality, or the lingering stains of isolation that have tainted her spirit, there is still a longing remaining beneath the roiling waves of her restlessness, the fire of her discontent. It is not too different from the same despair Lena currently dwells in, except for the fact that Larkspur has no one to miss.
“They should be glad that you miss them,” She replies, “True friendship is not always an easy thing to acquire.”
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