08-02-2019, 09:57 PM
Neverwhere is not concerned about whether or not Heartfire is kind, and she is not particularly worried about whether the mare is honest, either. The dappled mare is not always either of those things, and does not expect them from anyone else. As such, she is not moved by the warnings, as they only confirm her own suspicions, and if she is intimidated by the encroachment of her space, outwardly, she gives nothing away. It would require powers such as Heartfire has to know.
So that’s convenient.
Nothing happens for a moment, only silence and soft breathing, two mares face-to-face, and neither entirely convinced that they have much to gain from the other, but seemingly trapped in their conversation despite neither necessarily being bastions of polite society. The air is cool between them, and then, one of them blinks. Neverwhere blinks, several times, the mottled pink skin around her eyes creasing. She actually can see better, for the time. A least, she can clearly see the roan’s face, the contrast of blaze and black and eyes bright as the skies that linger far in her memory. And, as quickly as it comes clear, it changes, a ripple of nothing and what it was is no longer. Instead of the dish and delicate bone structure, there is another face, skin bubbled and scarred, mostly around the eyes and nostrils, it flushes when the sun lays too heavily on it and Neverwhere knows that rush of warmth, the sting in the eyelids. She wonders if Heartfire has transformed herself, if she feels the tightness where the scar tissue has degraded the skin’s elasticity. Or has she only created this image in the silver mare’s mind – perhaps it is somewhere in-between. Despite her doubts that what she sees is a physical change, she steps forward, no hesitation, no whisper of hooves, she closes the small gap between them abruptly and reaches out to touch the once-flat space between her knotted nostrils to the pink-red-white chapped skin on the side of Heartfire’s - on the side of her own - face.
Neverwhere reaches out only to touch and, curiousity satisfied draws back and turns her gaze back to the now bald-faced roan mare. And then, drily, but without bitterness, she wonders what she has agreed to for this bit of trickery.
“That looks ridiciulous on you. Can I have it back now?” It is her face, after all, and she’d prefer to keep it, ruined as it is.
So that’s convenient.
Nothing happens for a moment, only silence and soft breathing, two mares face-to-face, and neither entirely convinced that they have much to gain from the other, but seemingly trapped in their conversation despite neither necessarily being bastions of polite society. The air is cool between them, and then, one of them blinks. Neverwhere blinks, several times, the mottled pink skin around her eyes creasing. She actually can see better, for the time. A least, she can clearly see the roan’s face, the contrast of blaze and black and eyes bright as the skies that linger far in her memory. And, as quickly as it comes clear, it changes, a ripple of nothing and what it was is no longer. Instead of the dish and delicate bone structure, there is another face, skin bubbled and scarred, mostly around the eyes and nostrils, it flushes when the sun lays too heavily on it and Neverwhere knows that rush of warmth, the sting in the eyelids. She wonders if Heartfire has transformed herself, if she feels the tightness where the scar tissue has degraded the skin’s elasticity. Or has she only created this image in the silver mare’s mind – perhaps it is somewhere in-between. Despite her doubts that what she sees is a physical change, she steps forward, no hesitation, no whisper of hooves, she closes the small gap between them abruptly and reaches out to touch the once-flat space between her knotted nostrils to the pink-red-white chapped skin on the side of Heartfire’s - on the side of her own - face.
Neverwhere reaches out only to touch and, curiousity satisfied draws back and turns her gaze back to the now bald-faced roan mare. And then, drily, but without bitterness, she wonders what she has agreed to for this bit of trickery.
“That looks ridiciulous on you. Can I have it back now?” It is her face, after all, and she’d prefer to keep it, ruined as it is.
Neverwhere
.........
