"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
It’s spring, which means it’s finally safe to leave Ischia (I do not do well in the cold). Not that leaving the islands is very easy because I am not a good swimmer. There’s no fat and not much by way of muscle on my body so I just sort of… sink. Thank the gods for sandbars.
But I’m here now, and I’ve dried off over the walk. I also lost the flowers that I had in my mane during the swim, however, which is most distressing, so I’m browsing for some more. The meadow is my favourite because of the selection, and because the smell of my monster-family isn’t so strong here. They like to hunt in the forest, after all, though I do pick up traces of Anaxarete’s shadow-scent and the acidic one of the others now and then.
It’s been easy to forget that they are here too while I’ve been wrapped up in the bliss of having foals, even as I’ve feared their presence. I don’t want them to find my children, don’t want to know if Ana will find a use to corrupt them and don’t want to know that Ripley will find them tasty.
Despite the warmth of the sun on my skin, a shiver runs through me and I focus more intently on my search for some brightly coloured flowers. They always help.
isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone
She has not been to any of the common lands in awhile, having chosen to remain tucked away in the sandstone canyons of Pangea. She did not crave companionship or any kind of socialization the way most did, and sometimes it would be months before she remembered that that wasn’t normal. That if she ever wanted to train herself to fit in better, she had to actually shed the solitude and venture out.
The meadow is drenched in sunlight, and though it is lovely, it is not her favorite. She looks up to the bright blue of the sky, and feels that familiar tug in her heart. The stars are up there, somewhere, drowned out by the sun. She wants to pull the starlight around her and hide behind it, but she can’t. Not in the daylight.
From the corner of a dark purple eye she sees him, and though it is a rare thing for her, her curiosity is piqued. He reminds her, very vaguely, of the alien creatures that the shadow queen kept in Pangea. Slimmer, almost skeletal-like, but still just a certain likeness that she couldn't place. She walks towards him, her stride purposeful and her strikingly white face one of a marble-like impassiveness. “Hello,” she says once she is close enough, but she does not ask him who he is, or what he is doing.
I love flowers, I think we’ve established that fact pretty damn solidly, but I love conversation even more. Or not even conversation - just being near someone else. After being alone for so long, it makes me comfortable just knowing someone else is standing nearby.
Not that I’m ever just standing silently beside someone for very long but like, I could if I had to. The sentiment is still the same.
Plus, it’s a lot easier to not think about my mom eating my children when someone else is there for me to focus on. So this white mare that comes over and says ‘hello’ is basically my hero. I could kiss her! Except 1) we haven’t even met yet 2) my upper lip has this little hook on it like a beak so I don’t give the best of kisses and 3) what kind of an example for my children am I giving if I just go around kissing every one who says hello to me?
I’ll be honest, that third one is just there because I really like thinking ‘my children’. It still makes me so happy.
So instead of a kiss, I repeat her greeting - albeit with a bit more enthusiasm. “Hello!” And yeah, like I’m going to stop there. “Are you busy at the moment? Would you like to help me find some flowers? I could really use the help.” I glance down to the patch of wildflowers I’m standing in before looking back up with a warm grin. “I mean, these ones are okay but I’m looking for the perfect flowers and,” Here I switch to a whisper, half-feigning half-seriously worried about whether the flowers will hear me, “I just don’t think these ones are going to make the cut.”
isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone
She is still confused by them, and how some of them are more like her – closed up and drawn tight – and then others are like him – bubbling over and blossoming at the sight of anyone. Overt happiness is just as much a mystery to her as anger is; both called upon too much emotion, though they seemed to take root from different places. She still cannot fathom where any of them manage to get it from; how they must be able to draw up from different wells, until they are overflowing with it and it spills out their eyes and their mouths, and she wonders if it makes anyone else feel as though they are drowning bystanders or if that is just her.
Still, her lips pull into a mechanical smile, because that is the one reflex she has managed to learn. She could never even begin to match his enthusiasm, and she does not try, but instead watches him with a calm, slow blink of her eyes.
He refers to the flowers, and she looks down at them, but she does not see what he sees. She sees them like she sees the stars – some of them burn brighter than the others, some of them fall, and some of them are the mapping of constellations, but they are still stars. And like the stars, the flowers can do nothing but grow and bloom, just as they were meant to. She does not understand how one could be more perfect than the other. “If a flower is being a flower, then it’s already perfect,” she says in that simple, concise way of her.
She is distracted by the flowers, though, and finds herself staring at him. He is different than most, just like her – though he wears his differences on the outside, while hers is trapped inside. “What are you?” It does not occur to her that the question could sound impolite, or that there were more tactful ways to ask such a question.
Her answer is a little surprising, and for a moment my smile fades because my brain is trying to catch up with what she said - but once it does that grin just lights up. I look back down at the flowers and see them a little differently because of it, see that maybe these ones weren’t so bad - but they were still the wrong colour for what I had in mind.
“I like you.” I state simply, though the words themselves seem to glow with an appreciation and with a sense of finality that suggests I will not be budged from that opinion.
Not even, for example, if she follows up that beautifully poetic thing about the flowers with a question about me - which is my least favourite type of question. Again, my smile fades a little bit - it becomes more mechanical, because I don’t want to feel the distress that usually comes with the shame I feel about what I am. I answer honestly, though, because of course I do. And I can’t even tell her what she asked is rude because I get it. I don’t exactly look “normal”.
She’s the first one to actually just ask me flat out, I think.
“A wendigo.” And then, for some reason that I don’t quite understand. I elaborate - it starts off as a half-hearted joke but then I startle myself by being totally honest. “Which I guess just means I’m ugly and I uh… sometimes I need to eat small animals to survive.” I have never, at least in recent memory, admitted that last part out loud to anyone else. My eyes close once the words are out and I lower my head to sniff at the perfect flowers so I don’t have to see her reaction - especially if she leaves.
