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if looks could kill i'd be an uzi - Djinni - 09-25-2020
The first time I met the girl, it was in a dream.
The Fates led her to me, she had said, and it was then that I knew. Of course it would come back to the Fates. It always does, back to the Fates and to the inexorable passing of time. Nearly ten score years I have spent in this body, and each feels as youthful as the last. I was immortal, as they called it in Beqanna, with an agelessness to my features that felt wizened beside that youth.
I still think of her as a youth, when remembering that dream. She wasn’t, not quite. Still isn’t, really. But someday...
Someday soon, I will find someone who will wish for exactly the right thing.
Having placed myself at the heart of the empty field, I hope to draw that someday a little nearer. I am without much adornment on this bright day, but the grey, black, and white of my grullo tobiano coat shine bright and clean, and a tiara of short spiraling horns sprout from just behind my ears. They glitter in the sunlight, golden and metallic, a contrast with the soft pinks and purples of the hyacinths that decorate my mane and tail. I had shed my wings when I slipped beneath the water at dusk, and I will don them again before the sun rises. For now, I enjoy the feeling of the cool breeze on my bare sides and the smell of spring in the air.
I find him after several long hours, a handsome and smiling pegasus.
Something about him is familiar, and a minutes of conversation reveal him to be the brother of the boy who’d traded his feathers for a noose. He is unaware of the fate of his family, and I do not enlighten him. Instead, I trick him into a wish (though he does resist), and with what he has told me of his lover I am able to give shape to the girl in my dreams.
First there is nothing, then a pile of sand, then a filly as gold as the grains that had created her.
She is long-legged and wobbly, with tufts of hair growing all down the length of her spine. (Why my granddaughter had taken up with such a hairy creature will never make sense.) They remind me of tufts of barley, and so that is the name I give her.
The pegasus – who I have made her father – protests, but in the end he stands along in the field with a newborn filly. I watch him from above, and he eventually coaxes her to rise, and then return with him to wherever it is he has come from. I do not much care for the raising of the girl. What matters is that she exists, and when I have need of her she will be there.
ooc: the creation/birth of Barley