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When the harsh laugh died, dissipating as quickly as the fog of her breath in the wind, December shifted. “What you’re implying,” she mused, in that deadpan of hers, “is that you aren’t something, or someone now. The outside changes nothing about the inside, only how you perceive yourself.” The old mare made no immediate reply, other than the nearly-imperceptible droop of her ears. Of course, with that logic, what December was implying was that if she was nothing now, she had been nothing before. She knew that the placid woman hadn’t meant it that way, but it cut close to home all the same.
However, her companion was wrong on at least one count. The outside had changed how others perceived her—the world was a cruel place, and she had long ago determined that beauty and power were its currency. Perhaps the draft was unconcerned with how the world viewed the outside, but would she say that had she not the strength to command their respect? She was by no means a pretty thing, but she possessed enough bulk where most should know well enough to leave her alone. Sheba’s beauty had been one of her greatest assets, and its loss had nearly crippled her (both figuratively and literally). What good were her wits, of what value a serpent’s tongue, when the world shied away from the likes of her? Even this whole pathetic scenario was proof of it all. Where she had once inspired desire, now she could only elicit pity—and on her best day. She clenched her jaw.
“Are you ready to tell me your name now?” came the gentle voice, and she shook herself out of her thoughts. “Ma cher, I was never withholding it from you. You merely had to ask—I thought that you didn’t care about such tedious things,” she replied drily, invoking December’s earlier comment on introductions. “They called me Sheba,” the crone said, “and I suppose you may as well.” Name given, she lapsed into silence again. The giantess continued to work at the knots.
Eventually, December struck up the conversation again. “No one really talked or acknowledged me until I met my mate,” she offered, pulling a twig from the tangles. Internally, Sheba sighed. She probably wouldn’t have bothered with the mare in her heyday, she readily admitted to herself. What did December have to offer that some warlord couldn’t provide? It was only now, when she no longer had the looks to catch a lustful general’s eye, that she had to seek out other means of protection. That was not to say that the draft deserved such treatment, but again: that was the order of the world.
The larger mare continued, speaking of loneliness. The corner of Sheba’s mouth lifted ruefully, and she shook her head. That, at least, was not unique to December. Sheba had been around long enough to know that underneath it all, they were all lonely. Even the most powerful and the most passionate had an emptiness inside—what else did she think drove their constant pursuit of more? And she said as much.
“We’re all lonely, darling,” she chimed in with a hoarse laugh. “Only some of us have more distractions from it than others.” Distractions like friendships and family, distractions like love—none of it had sustained her in the end, anyway.
"speech"
OOC: ;__;
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