08-17-2019, 08:17 PM
The world is gleaming, fine edges glinting sharply as if leafed in gold and silver, not the soft glow of fog and moonlight. She can see the whiskers on Heartfire’s chin and the the small changes in the landscape around them as they reach the edge of the meadow. But looking at everything is itself a kind of blindness and she trips, more than once, over tangled mats of grass and woody stems, and nobody would guess that she had been so sure-footed and careful in her gait such a short time ago. Her frostbitten ears fall back against her poll, burying into the dense thicket of her cream-colored mane, and with a scowl, she draws shoulder-to-shoulder with the white-flecked mare.
She wants to see everything. She had left that desire in the mud many miles ago, she thought it was forgotten, abandoned, impossible, but now, now Neverwhere knows that it has always been within her. Waiting. But it is also magic, the mare beside her is magic, and in her chest, a jarring anxiety grows. She had thought she would keep free of these entanglements, and at the first opportunity, she grasped at it with barely a second thought. Where does this grasping for power end? Does she become a slave to it, always seeking more, always striving and clawing, drowning in a sea of horses each trying to be something more and something better than what they are? Her scowl deepens a moment, wet teeth glistening beneath gnarled lips before being hidden again behind a firm line. The ash-brown mare grounds herself with a breath that rattles in her nostrils and gains control again of her steps.
They still mirror the roan’s.
“Nerine.” A single word, dripped from her straight-pressed lips. She knows nothing of the land, only that it is one of the kingdoms of Beqanna, and it is, perhaps, as good a place as any for her to go to. At least, for a time. The journey will take them through many parts of the continent, and that alone is enough to sing to her Nomad’s heart. That she knows nothing about it does not concern her overly much, she has known nothing of many of the places she has gone and, if even there she cannot find roots, it will also be nothing to her to keep moving.
And yet, this is the price of her eyesight restored? To go to Nerine, and then, what, become a prisoner of magic and vision? It may be that she is better off blind than caught like a silver fish in an eagle’s claw. It seems so little and so unlikely, that all this has been manufactured simply to offer a home to a wayward wanderer. Neverwhere is curious, and she is suspicious, finding herself no more trusting of Heartfire than she was before.
“Nerine, then, Fly-Girl,” she says, her careless tone returning, casting an appraising, greedy, glance in the other mare’s direction. Nerine, and all the sights between. She can’t help it, she is eager to see them, to collect those sights like a dragon’s hoard.
She wants to see everything. She had left that desire in the mud many miles ago, she thought it was forgotten, abandoned, impossible, but now, now Neverwhere knows that it has always been within her. Waiting. But it is also magic, the mare beside her is magic, and in her chest, a jarring anxiety grows. She had thought she would keep free of these entanglements, and at the first opportunity, she grasped at it with barely a second thought. Where does this grasping for power end? Does she become a slave to it, always seeking more, always striving and clawing, drowning in a sea of horses each trying to be something more and something better than what they are? Her scowl deepens a moment, wet teeth glistening beneath gnarled lips before being hidden again behind a firm line. The ash-brown mare grounds herself with a breath that rattles in her nostrils and gains control again of her steps.
They still mirror the roan’s.
“Nerine.” A single word, dripped from her straight-pressed lips. She knows nothing of the land, only that it is one of the kingdoms of Beqanna, and it is, perhaps, as good a place as any for her to go to. At least, for a time. The journey will take them through many parts of the continent, and that alone is enough to sing to her Nomad’s heart. That she knows nothing about it does not concern her overly much, she has known nothing of many of the places she has gone and, if even there she cannot find roots, it will also be nothing to her to keep moving.
And yet, this is the price of her eyesight restored? To go to Nerine, and then, what, become a prisoner of magic and vision? It may be that she is better off blind than caught like a silver fish in an eagle’s claw. It seems so little and so unlikely, that all this has been manufactured simply to offer a home to a wayward wanderer. Neverwhere is curious, and she is suspicious, finding herself no more trusting of Heartfire than she was before.
“Nerine, then, Fly-Girl,” she says, her careless tone returning, casting an appraising, greedy, glance in the other mare’s direction. Nerine, and all the sights between. She can’t help it, she is eager to see them, to collect those sights like a dragon’s hoard.
Neverwhere
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