05-06-2023, 03:45 PM
— neuna
No, he tells her, it is not love that has brought him such happiness. Her brow furrows in confusion, her fine head tilted, as she considers this. (She is a thing constructed of love, though not from love, and love is perhaps the only thing that makes any sense at all.)
He tells her his name, thanks her for something that requires no thanks, invites her to share her name in turn. “Neuna,” she tells him, smiling still, despite the way she frowns with the effort it takes to understand what else might have inspired such unfettered happiness.
There is a pause then as she casts a glance around them, as if she might find the answer to her unasked question in the swaying meadow grasses. (She feels a sharp stab of guilt, too, as she realizes that she has interrupted his coltish display, the freedom that had seized him. But she does not dwell on this. For once. For, as a thing of love, she is also a thing made to let her guilt fester, to overwhelm her, to eat at the meat of her heart like some kind of vicious rot.)
She stares at the horizon, studying all of the things her bright white eyes cast in that soft glow, and then finally asks, “what is it, then?” It’s asked in some far away voice, thoughtful, introspective. Because love is the only thing that has ever brought her any significant kind of happiness. Because love is perhaps the root cause of any happiness (and sadness, too, but she does not allow herself to think of this now) she has ever felt. Love for her sisters, her parents, the shadow-wolf she has only recently lost.
“If it’s not love,” she elaborates, finally drawing her gaze back to him, “what could have possibly made you so happy?” It is not an accusation. She asks it shyly, curiously. Because she wants to understand the things that matter to others.
He tells her his name, thanks her for something that requires no thanks, invites her to share her name in turn. “Neuna,” she tells him, smiling still, despite the way she frowns with the effort it takes to understand what else might have inspired such unfettered happiness.
There is a pause then as she casts a glance around them, as if she might find the answer to her unasked question in the swaying meadow grasses. (She feels a sharp stab of guilt, too, as she realizes that she has interrupted his coltish display, the freedom that had seized him. But she does not dwell on this. For once. For, as a thing of love, she is also a thing made to let her guilt fester, to overwhelm her, to eat at the meat of her heart like some kind of vicious rot.)
She stares at the horizon, studying all of the things her bright white eyes cast in that soft glow, and then finally asks, “what is it, then?” It’s asked in some far away voice, thoughtful, introspective. Because love is the only thing that has ever brought her any significant kind of happiness. Because love is perhaps the root cause of any happiness (and sadness, too, but she does not allow herself to think of this now) she has ever felt. Love for her sisters, her parents, the shadow-wolf she has only recently lost.
“If it’s not love,” she elaborates, finally drawing her gaze back to him, “what could have possibly made you so happy?” It is not an accusation. She asks it shyly, curiously. Because she wants to understand the things that matter to others.
@assailant