01-20-2020, 06:11 PM
she fell for the idea of him
and ideas were a dangerous thing to love
and ideas were a dangerous thing to love
She considers not answering him when he asks her why she was in Nerine, but she thinks better of it. This wasn’t the time to argue with him, even though he was one of the few capable of coaxing her into being irritable and short, and ignoring him was tempting. “I was tired of being in Tephra,” she forces her voice to remain steady, ignoring the way her muscles tighten and coil uncomfortably. “So I came to see Heartfire, when that storm hit and then the rocks slid, and now I’m trapped in here with you.” She finishes on a frustrated sigh, shifting her wings again restlessly.
Any other time, she would have found this amusing – the idea of him being so agitated at being locked in with her, as though it was the most terrible thing that could possibly happen to him, even though they both knew exactly how they would pass the time. But this was not the ideal situation, and while she is not afraid of Ashhal, she is afraid of how he will react. She has never bothered to introduce him to their other three children; she knew he didn’t care, and she decided a long time ago that it was better if most of her children never met their fathers. That it was better that they never know that they were, to put it simply, unwanted. It was her fault that she picked the men that she did; it was her fault that she found herself in the same situation over and over, and even though she was hardly a good mother, she always hoped that sparing her children the pain of being openly rejected by their fathers was the right choice.
“I’m not hurt,” she answers him, her voice having softened as her eyes drifted close, trying to block him, and everything else, out. “Your child just has poor timing.”
However he responds after that, she doesn’t hear him. She presses her pale cheek to the ground, and she stops fighting against the agony that courses through her. With muscles drawn taut beneath her porcelain skin, she quiets the sounds that build in her throat – everything felt too loud in here, every sharp intake of breath, and every cry bounced off the walls. She succeeds, more or less, and with the tendrils of her mane clinging to her damp neck by the time she is done, the filly finally slips free.
Still breathless, she sits up, shifting until her mouth finds the wet, shivering body of her daughter and drawing her close. Even in this damp newborn state and with only the dim glow of her mother’s aura, Ryatah can see that she is white – like her – and with small wings, like Ashhal’s. And the more she stared at her face, the more she saw her father there; and that made her heart twist in her chest, the way it always did. Because she was blessed – or cursed – with children that reminded her of their fathers, in one way or the other, so that she might not ever escape them. “She looks like you,” she says in a tone that is oddly flat, her nearly black eyes flickering towards where he stands in the dark, refusing to give up any kind of emotion.
She stands, but with her head still lowered she presses her nose into the little girl’s side, her voice soft and inaudible as she murmurs encouragement into the baby-soft curls of her mane.
Any other time, she would have found this amusing – the idea of him being so agitated at being locked in with her, as though it was the most terrible thing that could possibly happen to him, even though they both knew exactly how they would pass the time. But this was not the ideal situation, and while she is not afraid of Ashhal, she is afraid of how he will react. She has never bothered to introduce him to their other three children; she knew he didn’t care, and she decided a long time ago that it was better if most of her children never met their fathers. That it was better that they never know that they were, to put it simply, unwanted. It was her fault that she picked the men that she did; it was her fault that she found herself in the same situation over and over, and even though she was hardly a good mother, she always hoped that sparing her children the pain of being openly rejected by their fathers was the right choice.
“I’m not hurt,” she answers him, her voice having softened as her eyes drifted close, trying to block him, and everything else, out. “Your child just has poor timing.”
However he responds after that, she doesn’t hear him. She presses her pale cheek to the ground, and she stops fighting against the agony that courses through her. With muscles drawn taut beneath her porcelain skin, she quiets the sounds that build in her throat – everything felt too loud in here, every sharp intake of breath, and every cry bounced off the walls. She succeeds, more or less, and with the tendrils of her mane clinging to her damp neck by the time she is done, the filly finally slips free.
Still breathless, she sits up, shifting until her mouth finds the wet, shivering body of her daughter and drawing her close. Even in this damp newborn state and with only the dim glow of her mother’s aura, Ryatah can see that she is white – like her – and with small wings, like Ashhal’s. And the more she stared at her face, the more she saw her father there; and that made her heart twist in her chest, the way it always did. Because she was blessed – or cursed – with children that reminded her of their fathers, in one way or the other, so that she might not ever escape them. “She looks like you,” she says in a tone that is oddly flat, her nearly black eyes flickering towards where he stands in the dark, refusing to give up any kind of emotion.
She stands, but with her head still lowered she presses her nose into the little girl’s side, her voice soft and inaudible as she murmurs encouragement into the baby-soft curls of her mane.
ryatah