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07-08-2017, 09:27 AM
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This is the story of Savera's birth. Once upon right now, there is a mare trying to bring twins in the world. The first, a beautiful child of purple and night, complies with her mother's wishes, allowing herself to escape into the outside world. She is brave and so she is born. The second, a slight creature of changing colors and bright emotion, is meant to follow her sister out, but hesitates. She would like very much to stay inside. When her sister leaves, Savera cries. No, not cries- crying requires air, and air isn't something she knows about, yet. Still it is as though her soul cries, shatters, bursts and fragments like so much glass. The little morning star has no concept of a world outside; to her childish mind her twin is gone, swallowed and expelled by the tightening that had been squeezing around her shoulders, growing tighter and tighter and threatening to compress her, too, into nothing. She fights against it, struggles and squirms, kicking cloven hooves into her poor mother's sides and wriggling and wrestling and refusing until - - wait, is that her sister? Though she has never before heard the voice of her twin, Savera would know it anywhere, just as one would know the sight of their own hand. She stops her struggling, freezing in the contracting womb, and listens, trying to understand. However, this pause leaves her open to the squeezing, and before she realizes what happened she finds herself sliding, squeezing, and falling onto something cold and hard. And thus, Savera is born. She lays for a moment, dazed, her hazel eyes struggling and failing to take in the enormity of the sky. The world is big, too big; Savera remains unsure about it, paralyzed, until the soft push of her mother's nose rolls her onto her side. With this shift in perspective comes a whole new onslaught of bigness, but also something small- Neaera falls into the girl's sight, and the morning star knows her sister. Relief floods her; she squeals a delighted greeting, legs scrambling to bring her closer to her other half. She does not stand but scoots, her mother helping with more soft pushes, until she is pressed against her sister's side, face pushed against the short strands of mane, breathing her in and taking comfort in her presence, in every tiny hair and line and muscle that makes up this other, familiar, being. From here she is able to take more in, a little bit at a time. She turns her head to look at her mother, silver gaze focusing on a gold leg, the curve of a shoulder, the white of her mane, and finally, the moon-slashed face that looks down upon them. She feels a certain happy warmth then, a sense of rightness, and squeals contentedly, trying to reach her gold-tipped nose out to touch her mother's face. Perhaps it is not so bad outside, after all. Perhaps living shall be alright. |
