|
Erthe’s sarcasm grows dull, and she gets no witty remarks but another roll of my eyes and a snort of why by Time’s Beard does she stalk me so much? Part of me watches her speed ahead of me on her white wings with the thought to reach out with my spark and pull her to the ground in a mess of feathers and crooked legs, but the more somber aspects of myself, the ones currently steering the ship, would rather let her fly away, away, into oblivion, unscathed. My bloody ankles throb as I pick up the pace to a floating, smooth trot, the ease of the speed produced by the sway of my long legs and muscular body the sort that I take for granted, especially in the company of one who must fly to keep ahead of me at all.
I notice the storm’s arrival with much less concern than the dove, so used to the blizzards of the North that I hardly believe that this one is dangerous, so far inland from the sea – the only other place to produce colds hardy enough to make my skin tremble, the caps of the steel gray water white, violent as they threw themselves with mighty force down onto the pearly shore.
Not being one of my skills, I am often less than sensible when it comes to the decision to take shelter from a storm – both literally, and metaphorically.
What I do notice is that the salt smell of the sea has been replaced by the bright smell of crisp snow, the hidden gold of grasses not yet foraged from beneath the veneer of white, and that the earth beneath us is rich with the scent of the earth, rather than the dusty odor of sand. The pretty forest that surrounds the Rotunda almost appears as a solid wall from the copses that litter the meadows at the heart of Helovia, the small saplings of its edges, gnawing into the sprawling hills and meadows year by year, passing us by. If I was to pull North, we would be on a direct path to the Edge – though the thought of abandoning the trail to wade through the ankle to knee deep snow on the way there was less than appealing.
I look ahead to her and wonder how far I could dash away from her before she noticed I was gone, the winds (they’re picking up, aren’t they?) tousling my forelock through my line of vision, hopefully a loud enough sound in combination with her flight to cover my escape. I’d use the trees to my advantage. She couldn’t chase me if she couldn’t see me, now could she?
She lands, almost as if she hears my thoughts out loud. My gaze narrows in contempt for her horrible timing, how she seems to just know when to take an action to have the largest effect on my temper; there is no way I’ll be able to get away with out her noticing, now. Still, the sight of her hobble as she hurries clambers through the trees and underbrush softens that anger, some sort of pity blooming in myself that she has been so very cursed as to be made physically useless. For the first time since our unfortunate first encounter with each other, I actually manage to wonder how she even got that way in the first place. I actually notice that, back then, she hadn’t been quite as ambling, quite as slow.
I look at the horrible mess that is her leg, the burden that makes her a hobbling joke on the ground.
That the Rotunda is so bleak and colorless in the approach of the storm is fitting to the mood that takes over the emotionless expanse that had stretched out and hunkered over my thoughts. It’s slow, the growth of the empty feeling that is not nothing, the gray black sensation of melancholy, always returning to me at these moments when I am forced to realize how very, very unkind this world we have been born into is.
She was only a child, my brain mutters to itself as her hooves clink on the stone steps. I follow behind her, absent, distracted, the usual gleam in my golden eyes lost to the thoughts and shadows which besiege me. Where were her parents when whatever happened to her happened? follows, the second time I’d thought it of the snow filly, the first time having been at a battle against the Bear, beneath the crackling might of Time. She been thrown aside during that fight… or was it another that I remember her lying still beneath a painted man?
We’re both beneath the unlit glass roof now, the wind almost roaring, whipping around the tall pillars and sending them with warping ripples in all directions, the cloth occasionally snapping loudly. All these things are distant, like I’m using the power of my spark, like I am not in myself, but outward… but inverse, as if I have drawn myself further into the vessel of my body, into the hidden compartments of my soul.
Does she… does she not have family?
“It’s really picking up. Looks like snow… spring is late this year.”
Is she really alone, like me?
I only now realize I’m staring at her, probably have been for long enough that she is uncomfortable. I pretend like I hadn’t been doing it at all, clearing my throat from the extended disuse between here and the border of grassy sand ensnaring the beach. My shoulder shrugs at both comments.
"I like snow," I remark, because I do, and look out to the rustle and sway of the branches over the creek’s flow. That it’s going to storm only makes this all the more perfect place to come, to think through my dream. The horrible state of existence is likely a topic I’d broach as well, if she wasn’t here.
I know enough about women, young ones, especially, to know I’ll get no thinking done today, not so long as I’m not thinking out loud, and including her in conversation. I’d wanted to share my thoughts with Sjal, when we had talked of Gods, of realms beyond Loorien, her crown and barren shoulders an invitation to bear my soul - but Erthe?
I often wonder if the Lord Time delights in sending me his hand crafted nuisances.
"Not to sound like a total ass, but why are you always alone?" do you not have a family? kept silent beneath my tongue; I ask the trees at first, looking over to her only when I refer to her as “you.” Memories of my own first year and a half are filled with walking with mother, the sound of her voice, and the laughter of my friends; they all flood to mind when I ask her, because I honestly can’t imagine being alone out of anything but choice, having always had friends and family to turn to, even now.
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
