08-23-2016, 11:49 PM
Not a reward?
The very idea confounds him. If the lightning birthed out of blood and pain is not reward enough for her, what is? He cannot fathom it being seen as punishment to harness an element to one’s own flesh and spirit. Had not the pain made her stronger, too?
Gun is squinting up at her now; he cannot know that the magic had always lain within her, just dormant. That it took a horrible act to make it rise forth and snake through her until she knew that she never had to suffer like that again. Catalysts are beyond him, his life is too new and too lacking for him to have ever danced dangerously in time to a cataclysmic event. Even the event that finds him here, alone and in her company, is not considered to be a great life-altering thing for him - it is, but he fails to recognize it as such.
(How can he? He cannot even remember those that made him - just a stallion and just a mare. Where they are now is beyond his ken.)
Gun likes stories; it is why he trails after Caw, too bright to be a shadow but more like a speck of mud on her black hide. He listens to how she tells him quite simply that she killed him and the pain stopped, and he understands that. Almost like a cow chews its cud, he thinks on it and understands it on an instinctive level. But then she asks him for his story; a fair trade, to be sure. Except that Gun doesn’t have one. How can you tell what you do not have, or know?
The lanky appaloosa colt peers up at her, more solemn now than curious. Not overly sad though, just entirely too serious for one so small. Maybe it takes him too long to answer her, to formulate a response that is deemed acceptable by normal standards (what is normal when her skin sparks lightning at every breath, or so it seems?) to her - really, to him. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again - -
“No story, just a stallion and a mare, then me.”
Gun doesn’t even know how he came to be Gun in all honesty.
He picked up the name somewhere and it just stuck.
The very idea confounds him. If the lightning birthed out of blood and pain is not reward enough for her, what is? He cannot fathom it being seen as punishment to harness an element to one’s own flesh and spirit. Had not the pain made her stronger, too?
Gun is squinting up at her now; he cannot know that the magic had always lain within her, just dormant. That it took a horrible act to make it rise forth and snake through her until she knew that she never had to suffer like that again. Catalysts are beyond him, his life is too new and too lacking for him to have ever danced dangerously in time to a cataclysmic event. Even the event that finds him here, alone and in her company, is not considered to be a great life-altering thing for him - it is, but he fails to recognize it as such.
(How can he? He cannot even remember those that made him - just a stallion and just a mare. Where they are now is beyond his ken.)
Gun likes stories; it is why he trails after Caw, too bright to be a shadow but more like a speck of mud on her black hide. He listens to how she tells him quite simply that she killed him and the pain stopped, and he understands that. Almost like a cow chews its cud, he thinks on it and understands it on an instinctive level. But then she asks him for his story; a fair trade, to be sure. Except that Gun doesn’t have one. How can you tell what you do not have, or know?
The lanky appaloosa colt peers up at her, more solemn now than curious. Not overly sad though, just entirely too serious for one so small. Maybe it takes him too long to answer her, to formulate a response that is deemed acceptable by normal standards (what is normal when her skin sparks lightning at every breath, or so it seems?) to her - really, to him. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again - -
“No story, just a stallion and a mare, then me.”
Gun doesn’t even know how he came to be Gun in all honesty.
He picked up the name somewhere and it just stuck.