i'm a geyser, feel it bubbling from below
hear it call, hear it call, hear it call to me, constantly
The weight between her shoulders is pointed and heavy. It sits like a perfect round ball, somehow two thousand pounds the size of an acorn. Her shoulders roll with the ache of a weight she can hardly withstand, and her hooves drag lines in the earth beneath her.
Brunhilde is dead-eye and zombified, draping her muzzle against the autumn leaves in the hopes that one will be sharp enough to pull her from this daze.
It should not surprise her that Hyaline is where her half-brained wandering leads, but it does. The colorful leaves should invigorate her, but the brilliance only serves to overwhelm her. She sighs and leans into a tree, closing those constantly glazed eyes. Brun feels so listless that even the two legs left to hold her weight begin to crumble, and her body is barely held up by bent knees and the sharp bit of a tree trunk. She is hardly showing the colt that grows inside her, but the evil of its creation sits like a heavy stone in her stomach.
Mom, she almost whimpers, forgetting that she is pushing six years old and beyond the age of coddling. She wants so desperately to forget, to turn back time to her first taste of sexuality, to the brush Leokadia’s skin. Even the strange cremello is one she will not return to, and she does not think she would even if they were incredibly close; but she does find she misses the touch of one she desires.
Cold, she thinks. I’m just cold.
And she is. Hyaline is unforgiving even in the autumn. Her coat is thinner, slower to thicken this year. Slowly, she pushes herself from the tree with a loud and tired sigh, thinking now is a good time to turn back before her family finds her.
Between the thick trunks stands Kensa, ever fierce and beautiful. Hildy tries to remember the last time she came to visit her mother, but her mind struggles to focus in her panic. None of the fury over her parents’ break up spills out of her mouth; instead, she merely tucks herself behind a particularly tangled set of branches, hoping they hide whatever little roundness her stomach has found.
It is the concerned, knowing way that her mother calls her name that breaks her.
“Mom, I . . .” she answers, stepping into view with a shameful hang of her head. “I know you wouldn’t judge me for meaningless sex. I know you wouldn’t care if I was pregnant.” Her words are making no sense, spinning in her head as she latches onto this phrase and that. She stumbles closer and cries as her knees knock into the trees. It is only then that she realizes she is weak because she has forgotten to feed herself, forgotten to do anything other than wander a bit and sleep.
“I think I need your help,” is her final, tired admission, and she leans her exhausted head against the shoulder she did not realize she had reached.
and hear the harmony only when it's harming me
it's not real, it's not real, it's not real enough
@[Kensa] :'/
