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07-16-2014, 08:03 PM
larkspur There's a ghost, she's wearing my face. ”Larkspur…” Lena is a light, a fire, her touch warmth, comfort, further awakening the cerulean solider to the reality of the world around her. Larkspur closes her eyes, shuts them tightly and locks her jaw against the stinging sensation behind them as the dark bay’s gentle embrace grounds her to this place, and a flood of memories fly past her, brief glimpses of the past, erratic and indiscernible. Larkspur remembers one thing clearly, and that is the fear that stalked her through the realm beyond the Time God’s mirror - the fear that she was damned to spend an eternity existing alone. The familiarity Time Mender’s presence instills a sense of calm in her, a tranquility that transcends the trivial processes of understanding and discerning truth and lies that threaten to sink her into the depths of her own confusion. Lena is real, this is real, as real as any flesh and blood and beating hearts could be, and Larkspur revels in this new existence. She is reborn from the mirror, escaped from the spite of of the Time God, his prison, or purgatory, a sinner given another chance at salvation. Did she deserve it? “I’ve missed you.” Larkspur’s head swivels, swings, her horn slicing the air and the dark river of her mane shifting against the dusk blue of her neck. She reaches to brush the bright and smiling mare’s shoulder in turn, lingers in reassurance, and sighs heavily. She imagines that the Mender has questions, as any one would after witnessing such an act of magic, but she does not pry or prod Larkspur with any inquiries that may linger. Instead the kind hearted, joyous Lena stands beside her, hopeful in her silence, without demands or ultimatums, as unwavering and resolute in her convictions as Larkspur remembers her. Perhaps the Mender lacked the strength of a warrior, the brutality and insidious nature of those who called themselves servants of war, but there is no doubt in the midnight mare’s mind that Lena is as lion hearted as any other. Her strength comes not from flesh or skill at arms, but from spirit and soul, an undeniable force that surpasses the fortitude any soldier worth their salt could muster. This is why Larkspur revered and esteemed her dearest, closest friend above any other, and the reason she would defend her without hesitation or question. Though perhaps Larkspur’s time beyond the looking glass may have scarred her, not in wounded flesh or broken bones, but in heart and mind, her loyalty remains as unwavering and immovable as the very mountains that reign over these lands. Some things never change. “How are you?” The whimsical, melodic hum of Lena’s words, encouraging and comforting, reach out to Larkspur through the cool cavern air. She does not answer immediately, but rather stands in pensive, brooding hesitation, gilded eyes falling once more upon the smooth surface of the Mirror where they fixate on the image of her and Lena both - this picture, this portrait, far less strange than the one of herself that she had stared upon just moments before. She glances back to Lena, her friend, her confident, a war of emotions waging their way across her face, and she is visibly pains as she fights, struggles and drowns in her own uncertainties, trying to find an answer, an explanation worthy of the title. There are none. “I don’t know.” Larkspur relents, and it is as close to the real truth as she can offer. She once more steels herself, reconstructs her walls and towers and ramparts of indifference, of feigned assurance, but she does not stray from the Mender’s side, does not waver from her warmth. She tries to offer some explanation, some sureness, but even Larkspur fails to convince herself of her own convictions. “I only remember falling. Endless falling. Cold and smoke and ice.” She hesitates a second time, her own voice a whisper, unfathomable images of the darkness from whence she came reemerging even in the light. “What season is it Lena? Dare I ask how long I've been lost?” The greater question still: did she want to know? |
