03-19-2023, 03:27 PM
yes i know that love is like ghosts,
few have seen it but everybody talks —
few have seen it but everybody talks —
She watches as the various scenes before them play, her heart still a quick, uneasy beat in her chest—afraid of what bloodshed they will see next, afraid of finding out the truth even though it is necessary. They move backwards, the rage and bloodshed gradually decreasing the further they go, until they reach a point of neutral indifference; a point in time where Baltia and Stratos were aware of the others existence, but not terribly concerned with it. It reminds her of Beqanna in a way, the way the lands simply allowed each other to exist, although the residents of Beqanna were far more connected than these two kingdoms appeared to be—because while the lands here may have borders, everyone’s blood was too intertwined to be truly considered strangers.
Everyone else around her seems to fade away as she watches, transfixed, as the story further unfolds before her. The Baltian colt and the Stratosian filly, strangers but not enemies, finding companionship in one another much the same way the children of Beqanna might in the playground. She can feel the fear and anxiety tighten in her chest when a shower of rocks cascades down the cliffside, her eyes flying to the large, winged figure that stalks the children from above.
She wants to rush forward when the boy is struck, but it is as if something holds her fast to where she stands, some kind of invisible force that keeps her tethered and helpless and only allows her to watch, and not act.
When the Baltians appear, and later the Stratosians, the grief and anger is palpable. It hangs like a fog in the air, thick and tangible, but when she manages to tear her gaze away from those that have crowded around the bodies of the two children, she sees them.
It is always unnerving to see ghosts.
She still has not learned to cope with it, and so freshly dead, neither have they.
The Baltian boy moves urgently around the crowd, his voice becoming increasingly more frantic as they continue to ignore him, grieving and enraged.
The Stratosian filly stands back, perfect and whole in death, her face anguished and confused.
“They can’t hear you,” Narya says to them, softly, having now learned to recognize when the dead are not yet ready to accept that they are dead. And especially so young, how could they? Even in life they likely had not yet fully grasped the concept of death. She moves towards the filly first, her own face darkened by sorrow and that familiar helplessness of not being able to fix what they truly wanted to be fixed.
She can hear them and see them, but she cannot make them alive.
Ignoring the crowd for now, she focuses on the ghost of the children; learning their names and the stories of their adventure that day, and reassuring them that they had no reason to linger here—that she would make sure their spirits could rest in peace.
“Who are you?” an angry voice spits at her, the words wet with tears, and Narya turns to face a Stratosian mare that stands with tears streaming over the lifeless body of the filly. “My name is Narya,” she says as she turns to them, trying to keep herself from seeming as timid as she feels. “You don’t know me, but I….I know your children. I can still see them, and hear them.” She pauses, watching the shock and doubt that registers on their faces—she hates telling anyone what she can do, hates the skepticism that always settles in their eyes.
“It was an accident. The two of them were just playing, and it was that roc—” she stops now, gesturing to where the creature still lurks, no longer interested in what was happening below and entirely oblivious to the chaos it had caused. “—that sent rocks falling down, hitting both of them.” She looks from face to face, eyes pleading, continuing with an aching desperation in her voice, “Please, I promise you, bloodshed is not the legacy you want for them. No amount of blood spilled will bring them back, but I have had this…gift…for so long now that I can assure you, they will not be able to rest if you continue to wage war in their memory. That isn’t what Rushing Ocean Wave and Mystic Sky Dancer would want.”
Everyone else around her seems to fade away as she watches, transfixed, as the story further unfolds before her. The Baltian colt and the Stratosian filly, strangers but not enemies, finding companionship in one another much the same way the children of Beqanna might in the playground. She can feel the fear and anxiety tighten in her chest when a shower of rocks cascades down the cliffside, her eyes flying to the large, winged figure that stalks the children from above.
She wants to rush forward when the boy is struck, but it is as if something holds her fast to where she stands, some kind of invisible force that keeps her tethered and helpless and only allows her to watch, and not act.
When the Baltians appear, and later the Stratosians, the grief and anger is palpable. It hangs like a fog in the air, thick and tangible, but when she manages to tear her gaze away from those that have crowded around the bodies of the two children, she sees them.
It is always unnerving to see ghosts.
She still has not learned to cope with it, and so freshly dead, neither have they.
The Baltian boy moves urgently around the crowd, his voice becoming increasingly more frantic as they continue to ignore him, grieving and enraged.
The Stratosian filly stands back, perfect and whole in death, her face anguished and confused.
“They can’t hear you,” Narya says to them, softly, having now learned to recognize when the dead are not yet ready to accept that they are dead. And especially so young, how could they? Even in life they likely had not yet fully grasped the concept of death. She moves towards the filly first, her own face darkened by sorrow and that familiar helplessness of not being able to fix what they truly wanted to be fixed.
She can hear them and see them, but she cannot make them alive.
Ignoring the crowd for now, she focuses on the ghost of the children; learning their names and the stories of their adventure that day, and reassuring them that they had no reason to linger here—that she would make sure their spirits could rest in peace.
“Who are you?” an angry voice spits at her, the words wet with tears, and Narya turns to face a Stratosian mare that stands with tears streaming over the lifeless body of the filly. “My name is Narya,” she says as she turns to them, trying to keep herself from seeming as timid as she feels. “You don’t know me, but I….I know your children. I can still see them, and hear them.” She pauses, watching the shock and doubt that registers on their faces—she hates telling anyone what she can do, hates the skepticism that always settles in their eyes.
“It was an accident. The two of them were just playing, and it was that roc—” she stops now, gesturing to where the creature still lurks, no longer interested in what was happening below and entirely oblivious to the chaos it had caused. “—that sent rocks falling down, hitting both of them.” She looks from face to face, eyes pleading, continuing with an aching desperation in her voice, “Please, I promise you, bloodshed is not the legacy you want for them. No amount of blood spilled will bring them back, but I have had this…gift…for so long now that I can assure you, they will not be able to rest if you continue to wage war in their memory. That isn’t what Rushing Ocean Wave and Mystic Sky Dancer would want.”
Narya
— spirits follow everywhere i go,
they sing all day and they haunt me in the night
they sing all day and they haunt me in the night