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11-12-2015, 02:53 PM
Tembovu
As the white General folds Erthe under her wing, the striking similarities between the two winged equines jump out a him. His head cocks slightly to the side at the small smiled silence of Erthe— had he ever heard the audacious filly not speak? His probing gaze and thoughts are called away from the pearlescent icicle as Elsa questions after his previous words.
A small, low sigh escapes him— for he had hoped that she would not ask, but knew that a word such as “dead” oft begs further questions. His low voice starts to roll in a calm but sad wave, “My words are not meant to be kind, Elsa. It does no good to wallow in things you could not have prevented nor can you change,” he pauses, studying the General with a deep blue gaze. “Sno, Mauja’s daughter, fell in the last battle. Others— from other herds— fell in the other battles, as well. Though I did not know them,” the image of a fallen young mare, her black body surrounded by Mauja and others, flashed through his mind. And when Vadim and Erthe sought refuge in the Edge, he had assumed Shadow had perished in the battles— he had been too focused with healing Rexanna to truly watch the mayhem of the Flats. But he had seen a crowd around a fallen, winged black mare…
At that thought, his grave blue eyes shift to the small white being who was shrinking away from the General and Glazier. Is that why she was so silent and withdrawn now? Speaking of death when her mother’s was not a season’s past would bring up grief and loss in most children. He had not spoken Mara or Faxr’s name for months after finding their bodies— instead throwing himself into other men’s battles.
He takes a small step towards her, large muzzle beginning to stretch towards her. But he stops himself because he was not certain that the young filly needed touch or comfort. Elsa had given her those and, still, she was slipping away. Sometimes grief needs space to rage and scream and wail and work itself out of the poisonously tangled mess that weighs in one’s chest. “Erthe—” his voice is quiet as he cuts off his question— for he cannot ask if she is okay. She isn’t, not yet. “I cannot say anything to make it easier or better. But I am here, should you need me,” his head is lowered towards her. He ignores the awkwardness of not informing Elsa the reason of his comment, because that is not what is important, now. Though his eyes to flick once towards the icy, broken mother, a silent entreaty for understanding his reasons for leaving her in the dark.
A small, low sigh escapes him— for he had hoped that she would not ask, but knew that a word such as “dead” oft begs further questions. His low voice starts to roll in a calm but sad wave, “My words are not meant to be kind, Elsa. It does no good to wallow in things you could not have prevented nor can you change,” he pauses, studying the General with a deep blue gaze. “Sno, Mauja’s daughter, fell in the last battle. Others— from other herds— fell in the other battles, as well. Though I did not know them,” the image of a fallen young mare, her black body surrounded by Mauja and others, flashed through his mind. And when Vadim and Erthe sought refuge in the Edge, he had assumed Shadow had perished in the battles— he had been too focused with healing Rexanna to truly watch the mayhem of the Flats. But he had seen a crowd around a fallen, winged black mare…
At that thought, his grave blue eyes shift to the small white being who was shrinking away from the General and Glazier. Is that why she was so silent and withdrawn now? Speaking of death when her mother’s was not a season’s past would bring up grief and loss in most children. He had not spoken Mara or Faxr’s name for months after finding their bodies— instead throwing himself into other men’s battles.
He takes a small step towards her, large muzzle beginning to stretch towards her. But he stops himself because he was not certain that the young filly needed touch or comfort. Elsa had given her those and, still, she was slipping away. Sometimes grief needs space to rage and scream and wail and work itself out of the poisonously tangled mess that weighs in one’s chest. “Erthe—” his voice is quiet as he cuts off his question— for he cannot ask if she is okay. She isn’t, not yet. “I cannot say anything to make it easier or better. But I am here, should you need me,” his head is lowered towards her. He ignores the awkwardness of not informing Elsa the reason of his comment, because that is not what is important, now. Though his eyes to flick once towards the icy, broken mother, a silent entreaty for understanding his reasons for leaving her in the dark.
There's a burning star to lead your father home,
He'll travel from afar, no matter where you roam.
Rest your angry heart, little one, don't you cry,
Soon you'll see him come across the bending, bleeding sky.
He'll travel from afar, no matter where you roam.
Rest your angry heart, little one, don't you cry,
Soon you'll see him come across the bending, bleeding sky.
@Elsa I'm sorry if this didn't make sense. I got interrupted 1000000 times while writing it, so it got a little choppy ;-;
Please tag Tembovu.
