If the world was ending—a terrible end where lava inhaled the floor and the ocean wiped out any form of life—and you were the only one who had knowledge that this would happen, what would you do? Would you tell everyone, or tell no one.
Now tell me, what is least selfish out of those options?
Would you sacrifice the fact of knowledge, lift the guilt off your shoulder and warn other’s regardless of inevitability? Or, would you keep it a deep secret and let everyone be swallowed by a torturous death with no warning.
I bet without wanting to, you would tell someone. Our hearts cannot bare to be tortured alone, and we would want to split the weight. We would want someone to feel how we feel, because for some reason we think that makes things easier. It doesn’t though, it just makes someone relate to you. And not even in a good way—not the kind of way where you both have the same initials or same favourite colour—but in a way where you both understand what is about to happen is going to hurt, and be the end. You couldn’t keep it a secret because by nature we are selfish.
I want someone to feel how I feel.
I am young, and selfish. And on top of that a male with my own selfish male tendencies fueled by testosterone and naivety. I am desperate for attention from those who don’t want to give it to me, but do it anyways. I want to feel important and special. I want to feel strong and chiseled. But I feel empty, worthless, a disappointment. My father will not see me grown, my mother has seen me grown and maybe that is worse.
It, in fact, is certainly worse for your mother to see you grown and see you have still not offered anything more than distant, shadowy company.
So I am here, lurking and spending a majority of my time outside the humid air of the Amazon and far away from the piney-fresh smell of my father’s ex-kingdom. I am hiding from all responsibilities (something I have grown to do best), and analyzing my future, and past from a very wide angle. A distance. A comfortable, reassuring distance that allows me to take a breath and not feel suffocated by the pressure of having two important adults raising something like me.
I was going to be great, and now I am not.
Sparks of lightning crinkle at the tips of my hooves as a exhale in frustration. My eyes close, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of my breath and soft breeze that cools my skin every minute or so. I tune in to the very raspy sound of twigs rubbing together, and the noise of animals chattering. It feels nice. Serene, even.
If the world were ending, Cress would not be standing around having a moral dilemma about whether or not it would be proper etiquette to go around and tell everyone. No, Cress would be the thinker; the one to try and find a solution, the one who would try to figure what was causing the end of the world so that she could put a stop to it. She would gather the resources she would need and she would do her very best to try and put a halt to the end of the world. The end might be something that is fated to happen, but Cress would do her damnedest to avoid that fate.
Much like anyone else, of course Cress would tell someone. Who wouldn’t? But not for the reason that you’d think—no, Cress wouldn’t confide in someone about the world ending because she wouldn’t be able to bear the weight of it alone. Cress would go to someone with power (a magician, perhaps, though she’s heard that they can be fickle and cruel), someone who could help. Only being a healer doesn’t lend Cress much power of her own, only the power to stop the aches and pains after they have already happened.
And maybe, just maybe, there is a bit of selfishness there. Maybe Cress wouldn’t know how to handle something like the knowledge that the world was coming to an end. Maybe that knowledge would be best left in someone else’s hands.
Cress is a nobody. Once upon a time, she could’ve been somebody; the daughter of a King and the pride and joy of a former Queen. Cress, too, is very young. She is on the cusp of womanhood (okay, maybe she was thrust upon it several years ago and she’s trying very, very hard to ignore the fact that she’s an adult) and she is perhaps the opposite of the quiet colt standing alone in the Meadow. She will be the first to admit that she is incredibly lonely but she doesn’t crave attention like he does.
She, like him, spends most of her time within the confines of the Meadow, though she is shy and prefers lurking over actually conversing with others. It is actually quite by coincidence that they have not stumbled across one another yet in their random wanderings of the neutral grounds. He is here to escape his responsibilities, and she is here because she has none.
She was destined for greatness, but her parents failed her.
She does not blame them, though. She doesn’t even know if they are alive.
She is wandering alone when she hears a frustrated sigh and a slight crackle. What was that? Obviously the sigh—more of a huff, to be honest—came from another horse, but the crackle? She turns towards the sound, her pale hooves hardly making a sound as she spins expertly in a circle and then—crack. She looks down at the twig she’d snapped under her heavy (because nothing about the golden Warlander girl is dainty) hoof and sighs herself. So much for not startling whoever that is.
After a moment she continues her search and her gaze lands on a young stallion about her age. With a sheepish grin she trudges towards him, not bothering trying to be quiet anymore. “Sorry about that,” she says when she’s close enough for casual conversation. Suddenly shyness hits her like a bolt of lightning and she stops talking nearly as quickly as she’d started, unsure of what to say next.
“I, uh, I’m Cress,” she manages, speaking past the lump in her throat. Just Cress.
My eyes land on a golden shimmering coat—but I smelt her before I saw her. She smelt of meadow-dwelling and a feminine perfume. Before I even took her in, saw her, I knew I was nervous.
I have met Amazonian warriors, but they hardly count.
I have been told I am handsome, before. It was by local women in the jungle and therefore their opinion is mute. They are supposed to say that, out of respect for my very well known (and perhaps intimidating) mother. It is like a relative pinching your cheeks and admiring how old, and grown you are. That sort of compliment.
I am built sturdy; thankfully my mother isn’t very feminine and therefore the amount of “pretty” qualities I was given are minimal. I am tall, elegant, refined, and chiseled. I like to say the diet of Amazonians has helped me stay lean regardless of my low ambition for exercise and adventure. I have low muscle tone, which could certainly be built and sculpted should I decide to but for right now I appear more like a dainty warmblood than anything. My coat has essentially grayed to a mousey-black tone that has warm hues of charcoal gray mixed amongst heavy onyx dapples. My hair is wind knotted and caressed by grass leaving a long tangled weave of hair at my side.
I am handsome, yes. But not special.
She, Cress (as she introduces herself) is pretty. She has a white blaze and a sunshine coat with a heavy show of femininity. Her eyes land on me in an odd way, I see right through her like a book that screams it’s words.
She might be a nobody to those who don’t matter, but for someone who has never met anything before, she is someone to Dalten.
“It is alright,” I reply, settling the sparks of white light still threatening to shimmer around my hocks. I find magic embarrassing, obnoxious, and self-benefiting. I try not to use it, or show it around others out of fear of judgment. The war might have been years, and years before my time, but the anger from it still lingers. I will not poke a sleeping bear.
“Dalten,” is how I respond with a cooler tone and more withdrawn expression. I am not good at socializing. I tend to be more reserved, and quiet. I watch others interact for the sole purpose of learning. If I am not good at it, I must observe to be better because I don’t like practicing either. I like where I am and if I could be successful without having to be talented in talking, then I would.
Let’s be real though, it isn’t about what you know, it is who you know. And I can watch other’s and know how to talk to things, but I will never get anywhere unless someone knows me.
And this is called a dilemma.
“How are you?” Is what I manage to poke out next only because from what I have watched, this is how you continue a formal greeting.
Cress wishes she were better at conversations. Maybe, if her parents had actually raised her… blah, blah, blah. Same old shit. If she’d been raised properly she wouldn’t be shy. If she wasn’t abandoned, maybe she would have the warrior’s spirit that both of her parents had possessed. Maybe, maybe, maybe. If, if, if. She lives in a perpetual state of maybes and what ifs. She needs to be able to stop using her parents’ disappearance as a crutch. So what if they abandoned her? It is not something she can change. It molded her to be stronger-willed. Naïve? Just a little. But that is not a weakness.
What she needs to do is face the facts. Fact: she is shy. Fact: she is not the best at conversations. Fact: she has not been capable of having many conversations in her lifetime. It could be that she is just destined to be shy and quiet. She could grow out of it completely. She just doesn’t know. With practice she will get better; this she knows for a fact. She cannot and does not blame her parents. Her shyness is not their fault and she does not think that it is. Blaming them would be like blaming the Valley for her homelessness. That is no one’s fault as well. It just sort of… happens.
‘It is alright,’ he says, and his gentle voice washes over her like a rolling wave. Instantly, almost reflexively, she relaxes. It is alright. Yes, yes, it must be alright. What’s the point of being so nervous all the time? Oh… right. It is not as if it is something she can control. Even if she wanted to be super chill all the time, is it even possible? No one can be relaxed all the time, but for now Cress is going to try.
He offer his name next. “Dalten,” she repeats, rolling his name off of her tongue. Hm. She likes his name. It is simple but at the same time it is different. She has heard a fair share of exotic names in her life—her father’s name is Oxytocin!—and yet she finds herself inexplicably drawn to simple names. Her name is Cress; it is simply but pretty. It seems to evoke a melody in its wake. Dalten is one of those names as well and she likes it. Maybe his name speaks of a song to him, too. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe she’s just really, really weird. Who cares about maybes anyways? She’s just decided not to, after all!
‘How are you?’ he asks of her, trying, like her, to come up with simple conversation. If only he knew! Her healing ensures that she is always well, and she tells him as much. “I am well,” she says, giggling at her little private joke. She pauses, deciding to let him in on it as well. “Actually, I am always well,” she admits, her tone a bit more serious. “I am a healer and I can heal myself of most wounds. If not all. So I am well—always well. I don’t even get sick.” He’d probably be kinda startled by that, but ah well. There is only one way to make friends, and that is to tell them all of your weird secrets. Right?
She’s new at this.
She offers him a smile before asking a question of her own. “So, where are you from? I was born in the Valley, but I don’t live there anymore.”
Mine is crap too. I am rusty