04-30-2019, 12:32 PM
they promised that dreams can come true
She wouldn’t understand because no one tells her. No one talks to her of politics, of the way the world works. They treat her like a child when they pay any attention to her at all. She is, of course, a child, but how long can she stay a child when her mothers deserted her to fend for herself after only a few months of life? Dawn kept her from starving to death, but Ori had no family and no friends, no protectors. She knew only the figments of her imagination, her mothers that existed in her mind but did not exist in reality. She knew only that the line between imagination and reality was a blurred, tricky thing that no one but her seemed to struggle with. She knew only that she held a magic she did not understand.
She did not understand because everyone assumed a child could not understand. But children’s minds are wide open, they are sponges waiting for information, they are blank canvas waiting for paint. Now is the time to shape the image, to skew the viewpoint, to change the outcome of life, and yet no one takes it.
He is silent for their entire walk, ignoring her question. The terrain becomes rocky and the smell of sea salt is long lost behind them. The plants here are strange, prickly things and she resists the urge to poke her nose into the rather fuzzy looking needles that stick off the plants at odd angles. Your home for the next while, he tells her, and she almost laughs though manages to keep herself in check. “I have no home,” she tells him, keeping to the truth. The truth is always the most painful thing. She doesn’t say it rudely, doesn’t seem at all upset to be stolen, but rather like she really is just telling him the truth.
Then he speaks again, answering the question that she asked what feels like ages ago. It was, in truth, only long enough to be mildly out of context now, though to a child time is always long. It only grows shorter with age, when time suddenly stops feeling infinite. His answer makes her want to ask why again, to know more, to understand the point of it, but she refrains, unwilling to turn herself into a pestering child. “They are sick,” she says, which seems more important to her than asleep, an idea she doesn’t quite understand yet. At the moment she is being literal, but there’s perhaps a truth in her words that is more than literal.
Solace was sick in body, yes, and many others were sick of the plague (even she is aware of a cough she’d not had before). But they were sick in mind too, and some part of her knows this, thinking of Kagerus who left a near newborn behind and chose her lover instead of her child and her kingdom.
Her mothers flicker into view then, as they often do when they come to her mind, imperfect replica’s only because her own memory of them is skewed now. She imagines them as a child does, as more than they really are and, for her, less than they really are as well. She sees them, and she knows they are not real, but she turns to the stallion looking at his face to see if he sees them as well. This is the piece she doesn’t know, the piece she doesn’t understand. What was her power? Was it internal, something more akin to madness than magic? Or was it external, something that would give her the power to shape the world to her own liking?
She did not understand because everyone assumed a child could not understand. But children’s minds are wide open, they are sponges waiting for information, they are blank canvas waiting for paint. Now is the time to shape the image, to skew the viewpoint, to change the outcome of life, and yet no one takes it.
He is silent for their entire walk, ignoring her question. The terrain becomes rocky and the smell of sea salt is long lost behind them. The plants here are strange, prickly things and she resists the urge to poke her nose into the rather fuzzy looking needles that stick off the plants at odd angles. Your home for the next while, he tells her, and she almost laughs though manages to keep herself in check. “I have no home,” she tells him, keeping to the truth. The truth is always the most painful thing. She doesn’t say it rudely, doesn’t seem at all upset to be stolen, but rather like she really is just telling him the truth.
Then he speaks again, answering the question that she asked what feels like ages ago. It was, in truth, only long enough to be mildly out of context now, though to a child time is always long. It only grows shorter with age, when time suddenly stops feeling infinite. His answer makes her want to ask why again, to know more, to understand the point of it, but she refrains, unwilling to turn herself into a pestering child. “They are sick,” she says, which seems more important to her than asleep, an idea she doesn’t quite understand yet. At the moment she is being literal, but there’s perhaps a truth in her words that is more than literal.
Solace was sick in body, yes, and many others were sick of the plague (even she is aware of a cough she’d not had before). But they were sick in mind too, and some part of her knows this, thinking of Kagerus who left a near newborn behind and chose her lover instead of her child and her kingdom.
Her mothers flicker into view then, as they often do when they come to her mind, imperfect replica’s only because her own memory of them is skewed now. She imagines them as a child does, as more than they really are and, for her, less than they really are as well. She sees them, and she knows they are not real, but she turns to the stallion looking at his face to see if he sees them as well. This is the piece she doesn’t know, the piece she doesn’t understand. What was her power? Was it internal, something more akin to madness than magic? Or was it external, something that would give her the power to shape the world to her own liking?
Oriash
but they forgot that nightmares are dreams too
@[Castile]