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 'Of course I don't,' he replied, mystified, as if were the most normal thing to lack such an important component. Did he miss a heart as well, a liver, a stomach? The world is endless in its wonders, Mama had once told her, perhaps in an attempt to pacify her daughter's fast-forming ideas into temperance and tolerance. Lothíriel thought about it: but the world is also boundless in all its terrors and maladies. She frowned. He turned completely to face her. But what a daft thing to say, she thought, as Papa's shadow emerged from the nighttime. Her sire's form swiveled between them, an insurmountable wall between the girl and the unknown. In a way, she was glad for this, but the yearning for knowledge of this creature's breed made her uneasy. He did not seem happy, and the sentiment was perfectly clear—leave. This was the first time Lothíriel would ever comprehend the complete imperium of her father's ability. It happened in a heartbeat: there was a rush of dark energy, and suddenly the intruder began to wobble, careening dangerously backward and leaving a patch of dead grass where it once grew lush. With a detached curiosity far beyond her years, Lothíriel ducked her head to watch this spectacle beneath the line of her father's belly, eyes wide with wonder. "Papa," she whispered,"will he die?" It was unclear to her whether she wished it upon this stranger or not, but if her father thought it right, then the filly would not question it further. Two things were clear to her in that moment: that she was boundlessly proud of this talent of her father's, and that the hornless, the intruders, the others deserved to bend their knees. What was that for? he demanded. The girl frowned—were all such creatures so dull? Mother's compassion and grace must be far beyond the reach of her own if she ever sought to love them all. He looked so bare without the benefit of a crown upon his brow, and his dark tail seemed like untamed brush. Her frown grew deeper; she did not reply to him in the case that her father might have wiser things to say, but the question seemed obvious. He was an invader—one without a horn, no less; wasn't that the way of things, the natural order? & when she walks, her footsteps sing a reckless serenade. |
