can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars,
I could really use a wish right now;
He doesn’t ask why she has chosen to be alone, and she decides she prefers it that way. She thinks he would find her weak; thinks he would not find it surprising at all that such a delicate thing was exactly the prey she appeared to be. She thinks for someone like him to be attacked by a xenomorph it would have incited rage, or a need for vengeance; for her, it just made her want to disappear.
So how foolish she must be, to have willingly approached a wolf—whether he was also half-equine or not his teeth still could have tore her open no different than any other predator.
She blames her loneliness and this torrent of emotions that wash like relentless waves over her. He was the first thing she had found that might act as a lifesaver—anything to keep her head above the water. She had taken her chances that being able to tune into his emotions meant he was equine, but she knew, better than most, that that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
Ripley had been born equine too and still did not hesitate to try and kill her.
His answer encourages just a small smile to her jade-green lips, and she feels her cheeks flush warm for even noticing. “It isn’t obvious, I could just sense it.” She doesn’t go into the details of that, for now; she isn’t sure if he will find it strange, or if he will close up and become uncomfortable to learn that she could read his emotions like other read minds. “Maybe when the suns come back so will your shifting,” she offers him in her quiet voice, though the words have an upward lilt of hope to them.
When the sun comes back—because surely it will.
Her eyes lift to the sky, and she thinks that the eclipse has lingered longer than usual, but she doesn’t know much about eclipses.
He makes another comment, on how she had known that she could approach him, and she hesitates. It would be suspicious to brush that off as an innate sense, too. “Your emotions,” she finally says after a pause, her words coming slowly as though she is measuring them, testing the reaction they cause. “I can feel emotions in other horses. I assumed that since I felt anything from you at all that it meant you were a shifter.” Something inside of her chest tightens, nerves that are beginning to coil. “I’m not reading your emotions right now, though,” she reassures him, but it’s a lie. She can’t control it; not yet. But something about being able to read how someone feels—not just their thoughts, but the very thing that makes up their inside and their soul—felt invasive, like she was seeing something she should have never been shown.
And she doesn't want him to leave; not yet.
I'm praying that this stairway leads somewhere like Heaven's door,
and when you get there don't look down
@[Crevan]