Her childhood seems so far away now. Days stretched into months, then years – soon, the passage of time seemed inconsequential, something that happens without real meaning and without her say-so. Once, this frustrated her. She would see her reflection in the flat surface of a summer pool; the lack of change – of growth! - would startle, then anger her. These days, however, her own immortality seems like no major conflict; instead, just a simple fact of life. Her dam had survived off of the kindness of a man she once loved. He had gifted her the ability to live on and on, as well as offered her the appearance of the body she had in youth. Perhaps, the ability to live beyond most of her offspring and friends had led her to appreciate the fullness of children, but disdain the contact of adults... and perhaps, that was why the old war horse had cherished her girls and boys, yet pushed them away as they matured.
Bidelia, if asked, would have said that she had had a wonderful upbringing, though it was lonely. Abel had been a good mother – always present with a strong shoulder to support the fleeting emotions of a young girl. Though her dam had kept her from most horses her age, her stories had been almost as good as companionship. They were vivid, striking and full of faces, emotions, and colors. Names of men and women, boys and girls long past (siblings disappeared into the wider world, friends whose bones were probably dust, queens whose legacies continued).
As young as she had been, she could never tell whether her mother was making things up or speaking the truth. Of course, it didn't matter then, but now, she stares curiously – wide-eyed, coat rippling anxiously from silver to brown-black and green- at Viveine, raptly attentive to what truths she might offer of the jungle her mother so often spoke of.
Yet, Viveine was not the first to speak. Instead, a sudden newcomer drops in with an answer to her curious query. Before she can respond, her original companion adds her own opinion. “I always thought they were stories. Wonderful, beautiful stories, but stories nonetheless,” her breath feels caught in her breast, “My mother used to tell me about this jungle, this place she once lived. She never would take me there,” bitterness, an odd longing that she cannot contain. Her coat ripples, turns her natural smoke-silver, so akin – though lighter – than her mother's worn hide. “Do you have to be a certain sort to visit there? To see these wonders?” She looks concerned; after all, Abel had spoken of warrior women with lion's hearts. What was Bidelia but a waif hiding in plain sight? She was no warrior – she was a watcher, a shy and patient observer. She heaves a hefty sigh and favors both women with an unhappy eye. Then, with vindication,
“I'd like to see where my mother lived.”
Bidelia
you can't go home again