isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone

She existed, but not much beyond that.

She had felt that disconnect between her mother and her sister as soon as she was born. That odd detachment that didn’t allow her to find feeling no matter how hard she searched for it. She didn’t dislike them, and if she had to love anyone, she supposes it would be them. But just Cavern. Not the other children that hovered near her mother, acting like she was their mother too. There was the jade-green girl, and the other twins, but Islas hardly paid them any attention. It was not with malice that she ignored any of them when they spoke to her; she just couldn’t find it in herself to care.

In the beginning, Ryatah had kept them – her and her twin sister – incredibly close. She coveted them like a dragon does its treasure, but Islas learned quickly how fickle her mother’s attention span was, especially when she became pregnant, again. She didn’t mind. The loosening of that overprotective grip was welcomed, and it allowed her to slip away one day and never look back.

From the top of a gently sloping knoll, she watches them, her eyes the color of a starless galaxy and nearly depthless when set against the alabaster of her white face. They mill about in the warmth of the spring sunshine, and while it is tempting to join them, she isn’t sure what she would even say to any of them even if she did. So she stands still, statuesque save for the way the breeze pulls at her growing mane, and the way her eyes so calmly blink.

isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone

Her interaction with others outside of her family has been non-existent, but she doesn’t mind when the stranger approaches. She watches him silently, impassive but not entirely withdrawn. If anything, there is just a small spark of curiosity that rises to the surface of her dark eyes, wondering what he could possibly want. He appeared to be close to her age, although that didn’t matter much to her either way. Adults and children alike often failed to catch her interest, but she would not turn away from something that chose to cross her path.

“They do,” she agrees, and her voice is high and light. With an angle of her small, shapely head, she looks at him with those plum-purple eyes; flat and shadowed, and the smile that adorns her lips doesn’t quite reach them. “I’m okay with that, I think. Being far away, that is.” She lets her gaze travel back to the rest of them, where they graze and converse, dappled by the sun. They look peaceful, maybe even happy, but she isn’t sure she can relate to them. She isn’t sure if this constant state of apathy is the same as being content, but something tells her that it’s not.

She looks back to the colt, noting the luminous sheen to his blue markings, and the striking cerulean of his eyes. There was something tranquil about him, and even though she could nearly feel it seep through her skin, it only warmed her veins a fraction. But it is enough for her to be curious, and for her to not want to leave – not yet. “I’m Islas.”

isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone

She finds herself wishing that she knew how to be something that he, or anyone, would like. But it was a surface want; not something that she often thought about, and certainly not anything that ever brought her any kind of sorrow. It’s only something that she thinks of now that she stands face to face with someone she knows she cannot, and likely will not ever, fully connect with. It seemed so easy for everyone else, but it has never come natural for her. Even with her twin – someone she had shared the very beginning of life with before they were ever born – there was something standing in her way.

“I don’t mind watching them, but it doesn’t mean I want to talk to them.” She says it in her easy, matter-of-fact way of speaking, and somehow that seems to take the curtness away from what could be seen as a blunt statement. “Tiercel,” she tests his name, and she finds that she likes the way it feels. She hasn’t had the chance to say many names, and the way she says his is slow and careful. “Nice to meet you,” she says, but only because she has heard her mother say it before.

But his question creates a bubble of hesitation, and a guarded caution shadows her face. “Do you want to be close?” She is unsure of why he would want such a thing, and she struggles internally to decipher if it’s something she is also expected to want. She lowers her delicate head a moment, trying to gather her thoughts, and then her dark eyes shift back to his face. He seems quiet and relaxed, and with a slow exhale from her lips she realizes that she should be, too. “I don’t want you to leave, yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”

isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone

She doesn’t understand why standing so close to him makes her feel something.

Just a stirring, and something still so flimsy and intangible that she isn’t even sure if it has a name. It was a warm feeling, similar to how she would feel sometimes when she was younger and her mother would gently caress her skin, or pull her in close to her chest. Like a watered down version of contentment, and something that instinctually told her it was a pleasant feeling and she should want more of it. But she never did. She never sought affection, or closeness, and even though that still isn’t what she wants from him, it confuses her that she feels anything at all. It makes her watch him with curious eyes, trying to understand what he is doing to slowly fill the hollow pieces of her.

She doesn’t flinch away when he draws himself alongside of her, but the way her dark eyes still echo with a vacancy when they look at him makes it nearly impossible to read if she even notices the closeness of him. But, there is a moment when her lily-white lips lift into a smile when he confirms that she wants to talk to him. Something fleetingly genuine that stirs a glimmer in her eyes and momentarily softens the indifference on her face, before it fades away back into almost nothing.

“No,” she answers his question in her quiet voice, briefly looking back to the others. “I just don’t fit in with them. I don’t really fit in with anyone.” Sometimes she thinks her connection to the stars plays a role, but she has never been able to fully figure it out. And here, in the light of day, with no starlight to be seen and the sun so bright that her skin can’t even glow, she knows that it’s just something wrong with her.

This time when she looks at him, her gaze locks fully with his, and she forgets the others that she cannot understand, and she forgets the stars. She looks at only him, with curiosity slowly swimming up from the endless dark of her eyes when she says, “You have some kind of magic. Did you know?” And again that almost shy smile whispers across her lips, and she reaches to touch her soft muzzle against his neck, the way she has seen her mother do. “You can fill up empty things.”

isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone

If she recognizes that he seems nervous, she does not give it away. Despite being unable to generate her own emotions, she has become fairly good at recognizing them in others. She analyzed them, almost studiously, as though if she could memorize what facial expressions and what body language went with which emotion, she could learn to mimic it. If she could, maybe she could fall into some sort of false sense of normal. And maybe someday, she would find that she doesn’t have to fake it anymore.

But for now, she is still a blank canvas for anything that he tries to color her with. His small, subtle signals feel vibrant and bright inside her dim, endless void, and she lets those tranquil, pleasant tendrils coil around her. “Most aren’t very observant,” she says, his mouth hovering close to her face and she imperceptibly shifts towards him. “But I imagine it’s different, when you’re drowning in your own thoughts and emotions.”

“I don’t know who I am, either.” Her dark colored eyes cast upwards, to wherever the stars lay hidden behind the sapphire-colored daytime sky. For just a moment, there is something else that clouds her eyes; a look of longing, or homesickness, she isn’t even sure. But his question pulls her away, and she looks instead to the young boy next to her. “I think I must be empty,” but she doesn’t elaborate; she assumes he already knows. Already knows that she is detached and strange and incapable of so many things. “But I wouldn’t even know what to ask to be filled up with.”