By the precepts of her purity

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The cliffs were grim and grey under a cloudy, drizzling sky. The green of the exotic forest shimmered quietly amidst the grey, muffled by the weather and the condense that was left cringing on the ground like snakes. The mare wandered through the mull sand of the beach, into the trees. Leaving her boat pulled up to the shore. It swayed with the waves, bumped and brushed the coarse sands in that rhythm as if it didn’t want her to go.

Of course she went anyway.
Closure, she needed closure.

Of all the Ill Gods that had attempted to sow chaos and despair, it had been this God that had rose up from the ashes of the Riptide Isles. The False Goddess that had managed to make her perseverance stumble and falter. Through the flames and the smoke of the battle she had stood frozen in a statue-like slumber, caged inside a mind that wanted to turn to dust as a consequence of an earlier time long past. And she had been smothered by it. Scared, because how could she had known; what reasons did she have, even now, to believe the Tigress wasn’t a part of the Denebian doctrine. How could she know that the Entity wasn’t a part of her old… Of her past?

She wasn’t sure why she had found herself in the midst of a forsaken battlefield; haunted by the forlorn, but she had. Closure, it echoed against the walls of her mind once more. There was a lock here, binding the lost with the living, smoldering in its soft crystalline embrace between the grains and the ashes. And there, in that same embrace, was the pain again. The betrayal; the hurt. As a chill wind it caressed her cheeks and ruffled feathers that grew from the sides of her head. She closed her eyelids against the cruelty of the world. The drizzle continued to come down and she got remembered of her three blind days. What if she had been blind that day, too? When the Tigress had stroke the claws of snake-poison and spit her hell fire-blood — could not having known her catlike form have made a difference? I would have felt it if it was true.

But she didn’t know.
She didn’t remember.

And even if she did, she didn't.

Her golden eyes turned to the ground and poked into the sand with her hoof aimlessly. She huffed, inside her head there was muffled laughter. Why would she ever think this would give her closure? It wasn’t like she could speak to the Goddess.

She was dead.

And there was nothing concealed in the haze of silence that was left in the afterglow of the yesterday.    

Her eyes rolled up to the forest border, where the leaves of evergreen trees swayed in the ocean winds. She thought about Beest, who she had met here that day, too. Hadn’t seen him since. In the end there were only empty hearts, so she set free the essence of wasted nostalgia. Closure.

I should just go back, but as she started crossing the lush, green vegetation, as she wandered back to the shore, her eyes fell on a patch of long grass on the side of the road. It was framing something in its midst; gleaming in the wet damp of the drizzle. Maren came closer. A teacup? she questioned; pondered while around her the sound of drops falling from leaf to leaf echoed against the intangible atmosphere of the bubble that had swollen around her. But it was so clearly a teacup. And so pretty. She brought her nose closer, smelled it, but she sensed nothing but the scent of rain and the wet earth as it carved a path into her nostrils. She touched it, pushed it and suddenly the teacup revealed the shape of an egg; and, surprised, she pushed that too, out of the patch of grass and watched it roll to its side, exposed in its bare oval-ness; slightly dirtied by the moist soil as the piece of china lay uselessly next to it.

The tiger mare looked at it, intensely with her ears folded forward, eyes big and her feathered hands stretched forwards to keep the drizzle and light from her eyes. To see.

An egg? But it was rather big, she stressed in thought, and suddenly she had to think about all the people she had met so far; about the companions they brought with them.It was something she didn’t need, had barely paid attention too, but they were circling through her mind now. As how this egg had lain in the midst of a wet patch of grass, dirtied by the earth: Her mind lay in the midst of loneliness, dirtied by the hatred she secretly felt for the current state of the world — don’t you see? The Riftians are a danger to this world — but it was only she who saw that. Only she who felt that. Who understood. And she was lonely. And the egg looked the part, as well.

So Maren’s belly found the wet dusty soil; sat down right in front of the ivory colored oval and looked at it with eyes of longing. The grown-up mare scraped her hoarse throat to form a murmur. “...You know, Mr. Egg, only because I am mentally unstable right now doesn't mean I will take care of you to see if you puke rainbows.” Such rude words slowly shaped by scoffing whispers, yet sounding sorry as they were left from Maren’s hesitant lips in a heavy breath.   

There was a pause. One in which Maren looked at the egg with a melancholy look on her face since she finally realized it.

"You know... I wouldn't even consider taking care of an egg if my mental condition was straight.”

There was another pause

But then she chuckled, softly to herself. And to the egg, if that counted. "So basically I am telling you that I am mentally unstable." She rolled her eyes. Somewhere in denial, still. But it felt so shameful to say out loud. So stupid; idiotic, as if she was sprouting nonsense on her tongue. "Either way you wouldn't want to have me as your... your -" Mother? No. "As your companion." She smiled, a soft kind of sadness reflecting in her eyes. Because she realized it was the truth, she realized she would never be fit to be a mother. Even a companion would be a stretch, as well. "I really am not mentally stable right now," she admitted again. Again, this time to herself.

Because wasn’t this all? Wasn’t she just finally admitting how screwed up she had become (How she had lost the way she was supposed to go). Her voice cracked.

"What should I do?" she whispered, exhausted.

By the precepts of her purity

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"Maren"

A voice said, not hard or soft. Maren's head turned around, eyes big as she had to look up to the one that had pushed herself through and into her bubble of troubled isolation. Framed by the tropical forests' vegetation stood a familiar golden mare. Maren swallowed her whispers, the thickness in her throat. For what else was there to do?

"Tandavi," she nodded, not sure about the vibe that hang between them.

She had not seen Tandavi, the former Sultana and Diviner (what are you now?), in the longest time. Yet, she could not help but wonder what roads the mare had walked since, did not know if she even liked to be here; as she had perhaps so randomly stumbled upon this soft and undecided version of Maren. Just like she herself had on this egg. Tandavi might not know what to do with her, as well. Or maybe they had both been lost, for why else would one come into a place like this? A place birthed from chaos and despair? Didn’t it still stain the air? Wasn’t that the real reason to have come here herself? To simply… get lost?

— Be forgotten; to forget, even if just for a little.

They were not that well acquainted, yet… As far as the tiger mare’s silent, golden eyes could speak, they were almost whispering quiet murmurs of relief. Perhaps it was because the few things Maren knew about her, rested on the idea of her being wise, being trusted. And somehow, in her weak and vulnerable state, she felt like — if that was how the world saw her, then that must be the truth. If anyone, she must know about this element that she had to consider. For once, she had little knowledge about what was important here; companionship.

Perhaps that was why the spark in her eyes turned to one of questioning. She returned her frowning expression back to the egg as she muttered. “...Congratulations?” A little confused — which felt slightly weird and embarrassing. Was this how it usually went? It felt rather… dry.

Inside her former bubble of lonesomeness and confusion, another mare came into their sight. “Amaris”, Maren noticed, remembering the elections for the new king and queen of the Edge… and the patrol they had shared together. As more drops of merged drizzle fell around them, the Fire Dancer softened her voice and told her about herself and Natraj, which made her own gaze wander over to the nine-tailed fox. Maren blinked, wondering why it looked so happy… a little bit too excited for her own taste, but then she realized it must be because they were together. “You speak with him,” she assumed, although her voice was framed by a subtle kind of curiosity. Sure, she had met some who must’ve communicated one way or another with their companions, like Sikaex and Gaucho, but she had never fully realized what it meant - or how it was done. After that, Amaris showed her a red dragon, which she wondered if it was also a companion. It felt similar to her own mists and, although they danced and curled, they did not have a heart of their own. She too did not forget to mention the responsibility and privilege.

The thing was, at this very moment, she didn’t care about responsibility. She didn’t care about the thousands of others who had or had not bonded before her. She didn’t care about what would happen if it were to be sick — if she were to be sick; if she were to die. She didn’t care, because her mind was a battlefield between the right and the wrong. Her heart was a shell filled with silence and the echo of loneliness. She was confused. Angry. Doubtful towards the world, even more towards herself. The only thing she cared about was that it would go away, for it to be replaced by something else. Something better. Something warm; a feeling she had felt for the last time long ago, when she had still been with her lost brother; when the mountains had been their fake castles and the clouds their fake kingdoms; when the dust had still quietly lain in the depths of the valleys, unmoved by the winds of change that were soon to come.

She cared about her faith, about her being, but she couldn’t count on her state of mind as it was now. Still, her nose touched the eggshell, as if it was sorry it had shoved it on its side in the first place. She hadn’t noticed before that it was warm, but it was and it made her warm inside, too. Maybe that was when she realized… Perhaps that was when she knew.

The purple shade around her narrowed pupils shimmered from sudden awe. “It’s HATCHING...!” The words slipped her tongue in a sudden hoot. Then it moved, cracked louder. The excitement in her eyes turned to terror as she pulled back her head, the idea of running away passing her thoughts (this is no good after all) — but she stayed put, belly thrusted deeper into the moist sand as she uncomfortably moved her legs underneath her as she watched the cracks in the glinstering ivory shell grow and increase. Her mind was going crazy, yet her ears were pointed forward in suspense, her nostrils wide and utterly and purely — focused — on the breaking of an egg.

It felt so quiet, besides the beating against her throat, her ears, her chest. Maybe she wasn’t ready for the commitment, but she did need it. She really did — and she felt that, because her heart was fluttering in the softest way. There was a chill all over her skin, while underneath it it was warm, as if the sun had warmed it only for this moment. And she knew, because she wished she could turn down all voices, except the quiet yelps that came from the tiger babe that was slowly emerging from the broken pieces of ivory shell.

She looked at it, intensely. The violet shimmering dancing in the midst of the gold of her irises; slowly softening its uptight flame into a smoldering light. She looked at the tiny, orange tiger body that had fallen along with its tiny tiger head into the long wet grass — it’s so tiny, she realized again. She brought her nose closer, giving it a very, very gentle puff from her nostrils, afraid the animal was going to blow away.

It’s a tiger, she realized stupidly late. It was fitting, since her ancestors had had, next to goats, tiger companions as well. And she was happy it wasn’t a goat, since it meant (even if just a little) she went after her father in the end, after all. She smiled, but then another sudden surprise of a realization came to her mind. Immediately her head shot up, looked into the distance where the battle had been fought. The tigress — The Goddess... She swallowed the air that she had caught in her throat as the hairs on her hide bristled. Perhaps this was her way of showing — Of letting her know... it was okay.

Closure.  

...Yeah, she realized. And, for some idiotic reason, it warmed her soul; warmed the smile with which she looked at her bonded. True Gods never died, after all, for they were always in someone’s heart. This time it had just been hers. From the snout of the tiger came a small yelp and once again Maren’s nose came to the rescue. With its tiny paws it groped the width of her nose, clinged to it. She suddenly remembered the company.

“It needs a name that portrays harmony,” she muttered underneath the weight that hung from her face. Her eyes found the teacup the egg had been hiding under. “I'll call you Teatime,” she childishly pondered out loud. Then the little one let go and fell into the long, wet grass on its back. “Mr. Teatime,” she rectified herself, as she noticed the fluffy underneath. She watched it crawl around for a little bit longer, not noticing anymore how warm her veins had become, how subtly the ripples of a residue-frown had smoothened out. As if she was already used to it.  

And perhaps.

Perhaps Mr. Teatime would prove to be the flight she had lost so long ago.

It had just come in a slightly different package.