GRETA
I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.
" Do you remember? "
So strange - to live in a world where you know nothing, while others around you are all-seeing. She is used to this (as much as one could ever be), as her father did it too. You were never safe, your thoughts never whole without a probing mind. She was familiar with the feeling of her mind being invaded- the soft tug, the crooning quiet telling you let me in, let me in And of course, even if she wanted to - she could not deny the request. She was helpless, in so many ways. However, where her father forced his way in like a battering ram to the door, crowding her head and leaving no stone unturned, this feeling was a little more tepid. She felt the tendrils of the two mares’ minds, but they did not force their way in any further - just dipping a toe in the water.
She is welcomed cordially enough (a relief to say the least)- and they fold her into the conversation neatly. A conversation of age and stories and the land they stood upon - all of which Greta knew very little about. How could she, when half her life was spent in the snow-globe of Eight’s own universe? The bay mare laughs, and Greta briefly feels ashamed. Should she know these things? What is wrong and what is right to ask? There were no questions where she came from - only commands.
“I’m sorry.” A rushed apology complimented by her head low and a quick step back (never look him in the eye, always be demure, always admit you are wrong). But it seems the mare does not seem to mind too much - the laughter is not malicious, but melodic- the conversation continues to flow without a beat. Their age is dripping like honey where they stand, their stories creaking in their bones; and Greta is here to hear them.
“I do not know much about age. Or this land or world. What happened? Is it not the same?”
@[Straia] @[Blasphemare]