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the happy ending depends, of course...
Knowing and hearing of his dove’s brokenness was much different than seeing it. Black rimmed ears tip further forward as he listens to the soft, devastating questions slip past her pale, blushed lips. Bloodied water stained the coral to red wine, and the Elephant’s eyes search the exposed parts of the dove for injuries. Though he finds none, only skin ripped raw by herself, and her pale body looks blushed beneath the scarlet-dyed waters, dancing in the waves that eagerly and hungrily lap and her beautifully defeated body.
But he does not answer her quiet questions of being born. Instead, his thick legs create crimson eddies as he walks further into the pool of sorrow. Russet liquid laps over the banks as his great bulk enters the water, outstretched head seeking hers. His muzzle aims to trace along her slender crest before lips part to gently tug the blushed tendrils of mane. His massive body crowds her, but he brings them into close quarters out of compassion and need and concern. Awkwardly and tenderly, he tries to slip his left shoulder beneath her left wing; to lift her up above the dark water’s keen hunger for her nostrils and lungs.
“Are you thankful?” The soft urges of his mouth and shoulder cease at her question as his thick neck arches to look at her face. Navy eyes linger on the tilt of her head that creased the delicate skin of her neck, before skimming her blank grin and landing in her empty, rose stare. Ears remain perked, but more wrinkles crease his eyes— adding confusion to the concern that lined his face.
But the broken continues an onslaught of simple anguish, “There is nothing here for me or you or anything.” Silence, and his lips drop the tendrils of her mane to speak, before, “I should have died long ago.”
A frown now adds to the many creases on the man’s face. As many lines on his face as there were cracks in the dove’s soul. “Njiwa,” his murmur is soft, “I am thankful for you. That is something— something that is far more than ‘nothing.’” His great skull moves towards hers, pale muzzle seeking to press against the tender skin at the chafed commissure of her lips, “Didn’t you tell me in the Grove that you would be with me until the light is gone from this world?” He breaths softly, warm air caressing her raw skin as he repeats her own words back to her, “You cannot do that if you had died long ago.”
He shifts, trying to run his nose beneath her jaw to lift her head above the waves, “So come out of the water, and tell me,” he gently urges, “what has you saying this?”
But he does not answer her quiet questions of being born. Instead, his thick legs create crimson eddies as he walks further into the pool of sorrow. Russet liquid laps over the banks as his great bulk enters the water, outstretched head seeking hers. His muzzle aims to trace along her slender crest before lips part to gently tug the blushed tendrils of mane. His massive body crowds her, but he brings them into close quarters out of compassion and need and concern. Awkwardly and tenderly, he tries to slip his left shoulder beneath her left wing; to lift her up above the dark water’s keen hunger for her nostrils and lungs.
“Are you thankful?” The soft urges of his mouth and shoulder cease at her question as his thick neck arches to look at her face. Navy eyes linger on the tilt of her head that creased the delicate skin of her neck, before skimming her blank grin and landing in her empty, rose stare. Ears remain perked, but more wrinkles crease his eyes— adding confusion to the concern that lined his face.
But the broken continues an onslaught of simple anguish, “There is nothing here for me or you or anything.” Silence, and his lips drop the tendrils of her mane to speak, before, “I should have died long ago.”
A frown now adds to the many creases on the man’s face. As many lines on his face as there were cracks in the dove’s soul. “Njiwa,” his murmur is soft, “I am thankful for you. That is something— something that is far more than ‘nothing.’” His great skull moves towards hers, pale muzzle seeking to press against the tender skin at the chafed commissure of her lips, “Didn’t you tell me in the Grove that you would be with me until the light is gone from this world?” He breaths softly, warm air caressing her raw skin as he repeats her own words back to her, “You cannot do that if you had died long ago.”
He shifts, trying to run his nose beneath her jaw to lift her head above the waves, “So come out of the water, and tell me,” he gently urges, “what has you saying this?”
...on when you end your story.
@Orithia <33
Please tag Tembovu.
