Aswane figures life has the undying ability to fly away from existence. It doesn’t fly away like a bird or a bug, no, but it flies without caution. It is a reckless beam from the northern sun, if it exists at all. The northern sun contains all life after life. It stores away the good souls, and it grows brighter and brighter each day. The child of earth is just that, a child of earth – a child of sun or water perhaps. None of that changes. She needs all of that to exist. The filly remembers her sister’s words about her brother. He is the boy that only believes in the heat of the sun. Even Aylin only believes the moon can spread good among the land. They are silly to believe in just one of the gods and in the end, they all made up Loorien.
They are all the same.
They are all divine.
Aswane, little as she is, respects them all the same. Their antique brains have felt the elements in all, and they are far more valuable than any selfish emotions born in the mortal lands. She knows their secrets because she believes in them. Her spirit is filled with their voices, and her body is enveloped in their land.
She blindly guides herself across the arcing rocks that reach across the swirling blue lava. Their heat causes shy sweat to start from under her spring hide, drenching her legs and flanks dark and moist. It is humid here and her eyes swim in drying sockets that observe through a twisting mirage of blue smoke. She blinks away the urge to cry and bites back a sob from the heat. Up ahead she spies with her one green eye the nearly glowing, ornate designs of shrines. The heat warps their figure, and she believes them to be intact until her little hooves grasp the torn earth below. They are ruins dancing before her sparkly eyes, cloaked in catastrophe, daring her to near. She inhales the scent of magic, feeling the sensation burn the walls of her nostrils. The flowerchild waits for a breeze to chill the growing heat. There is nothing. All units of the world are gone here and the vibe is empty but for sorrow.
Choke-like sobs are the only sound now aside from the tremendous wheeze and sputter of magma to lava. She can hear them through the hiss of ignited soil. Her ginger ears prick and the shrine decorated in ash is occupied. A painted, mocha mare with matching wings stands in the crevice of all this despair, her eyes are an azure sea and she rains out her torment. Deep in the dark red of her young soul, Aswane feels a string tug for the mare and she follows it moving her frail legs with timid steps. As much as she doesn’t want to disturb her, she wants to comfort her. As the filly rounds the wall of rock, she freezes, finding a pearly figure of innocence, draped in crimson. She is finding herself next to the saddened Pegasus, sharing the same woe in her bicolored eyes. They both mourn into the temple, tears pattering to the unlit ash. Aswane drops her head, pale forelock falling into her own eyes as she shares a moment with tear.
She didn’t cry for the gods, for the two mares, for the torn ruins, or for the heat playing tricks with thirst. Aswane cries for the only thing she’s never cried for. Her body sheds one drop of crystal before she erupts into a violent quake of soul-wrenching sobs. The filly’s choking wails stretch into the shrine, bouncing into ear range of the quietly mourning mares. She feels wet seep out of her muzzle and pour down her chin. Her sides heave ungraciously as her cry stretches throughout the Veins. The flowerchild feels selfish guilt pile up in her throat and she is finally able to stop. Her eyes rim red. She is a mess and her green eye finds the eyes of Onni and Ophelia.
She slouches in one reserved tuck, pleading they’ll wish her away, take one of those heavy hooves and crash them down on her skull, punish her for the mistake her parents made.
aswane
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shelter for the forlorn. [open]
