| World's Edge Filly |
| Filly :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: Yearling |
| Bunnie |
Despite the fact that his very being makes her sad, there is another aspect to her just barely younger brother that isn’t sorrowful, at all. In fact, she’s reminded of herself, and Gawen, so much so that her brother’s smile becomes infectious, and her teary expression is put away for one of tentative happiness. Sniffling back the last dribbling remnants of her almost wept tears, the girl tilts her head towards Byron, and begins to let her heart open up wide, when her Uncle Bart arrives.
Now, she’d met him once, in a fleeting tangle of tall, adult trees and others, where she’d only been permitted the tiniest peep of a hello, before being swallowed up in the wild rush of activity. It wasn’t much of a meeting, though, and it certainly had sufficed to fulfill all of Maude’s dreams and secretly held ambitions as to just who her free spirited Uncle Bartholomeo was. In her mind, he was just as dashing and brave as he appeared to be in real life, though there certainly less trinkets in his actual hair. However, his smile and blush inspiring wink are certainly enough like the daring, adventurous rogue she’d imagined him to be in all her mentally depicted adventures to distract the little filly from the fact that he’s likely to spill light on her tentative secrets.
An excited glance is relayed between her brother and Uncle at the proclamation of treasure from the child alongside her, her heart also swelling with wonder at the notion of such an amazing thing as hoarded trinkets, and gold.
"It is good to properly meet you at last, Uncle Bart!" she smiles, and juts her chest forward, her smile a literal beam of joy as she hears tell of her Auntie’s praise. Eager to return the compliment, and glad she has a truthful one, at that, she adds: "Daddy told me lots about you, too! Is it true that you’ve got real treasure?!"
Her curled tail wriggles excitedly, despite her desire to keep it still (as would a proper lady), and she even giggles – a giggle which is cut short by the mention of her father, once she realizes what all such a statement might imply to Byron.
Any prayer the ginger and cream maiden might have had that he hadn’t caught on isn’t allowed time to live; his squeaky voice lurches out exactly what that makes him feel, and Maude’s belly bottoms out in all the ways Byron’s voice escalates. Staring again at her hooves, she lets the hurtful truth that her father had told her about Byron, but not Byron about her, settle in. Was he not proud of her? Or had he just not seen her brother enough to tell him?
Neither of them felt good. She doesn’t want to feel them, either, and so she sheepishly looks back up at the golden eyed colt when she believes her heart might bare it. Her easy smiles are tucked away for coy glances, and hidden fears of rejection; when he mentions Jude, her whole chest feels like it’s full of rocks.
What’s he like? she wants to ask, finding it unfair that she couldn’t get this all over with at once; having made it this far into the ordeal of meeting one’s illegitimate sibling, she wasn’t sure she wanted to do it again.
"Of course you can get to know me, Byron!" she blurts, her welled tears again blinked away in favor of strength, and courage, the key ingredients to any hero in any story she’d heard that was of any merit. It wouldn’t do to spend her whole first afternoon with her brother and Uncle crying, like some sort of baby. She was Maude, the brave, the bold, and she was a great adventurer! She’d not squall all afternoon because the imperfect world was what it was, just as she’d not let her mother’s disappearance wear away the vivacity of her spirit. Staring at her brother with an emotional expression, she earnestly states: "I’d really like to get to now you, and Jude, too."
"And you too, of course, Uncle Barty!" the maiden adds with a smile, and a laugh, as she bumps her Uncle Bartholomeo’s shoulder with her soft, copper tinted muzzle.
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how to be brave
how to love when I'm afraid
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Image by Araxel@DA
@Byron @Bartholomeo
Hold onto this lullaby, even when the music's gone.
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