03-19-2016, 01:00 PM
“Yes,” she murmurs, her own excitement a hot coal that sits in her breast and stirs to life, flaming and fierce as she is remembered and recognized - things she exists for, lest she fade to little more than a ghost beside her pond deep in the forest.
Her green eyes blaze with life, or the beginnings of it because she has been dead inside for so long now that she has forgotten life is beyond the basics of eat, breathe, and sleep. Loam licks her dry lips and takes a step closer to the tree - to the mare that conjures it up from the earth and she sniffs the air around the bay mare, smelling the stink of something other than horse, sweat, and dust. Something, she thinks, like magic.
“You’re different,” she points out offhandedly, far too honest to be anything other than brutal in her talk as her emerald gaze swoops down and alights upon all the puckering and pinching of flesh that can be nothing but scars; scars that were not there before…Some are faded, dulled by time and healing, and others look too ugly and fresh. Her muzzle reaches out of its own accord, or so it seems, and her lips dance ever so lightly in a mothwing kiss across this scar and that one.
Loam never thinks to ask if Hickory is okay; they were not the same as they were the first time they met but they are not so very different from then either. She thinks of asking how the bay can do that - magick things up from the earth but she was never interested much in things like that - magic, and things growing, when she was full of so death and nothingness, until him - no, she stops herself, and reconsiders, until her - Hickory.
Her eyes are full of mare and tree, and how the tree is between them again as if Loam intends to keep her distance. But that is silly - Loam could no more keep her distance than she could be good, but she is brought to kindness by Hickory, and moves so that their shoulders can brush when they shift their bodies. Her lips press a sigh to the tangling mess of mane and neck, and the things that are usually said like “I missed you” goes unsaid because Loam said those words once, to a memory that went back to being a memory and only that.
Her green eyes blaze with life, or the beginnings of it because she has been dead inside for so long now that she has forgotten life is beyond the basics of eat, breathe, and sleep. Loam licks her dry lips and takes a step closer to the tree - to the mare that conjures it up from the earth and she sniffs the air around the bay mare, smelling the stink of something other than horse, sweat, and dust. Something, she thinks, like magic.
“You’re different,” she points out offhandedly, far too honest to be anything other than brutal in her talk as her emerald gaze swoops down and alights upon all the puckering and pinching of flesh that can be nothing but scars; scars that were not there before…Some are faded, dulled by time and healing, and others look too ugly and fresh. Her muzzle reaches out of its own accord, or so it seems, and her lips dance ever so lightly in a mothwing kiss across this scar and that one.
Loam never thinks to ask if Hickory is okay; they were not the same as they were the first time they met but they are not so very different from then either. She thinks of asking how the bay can do that - magick things up from the earth but she was never interested much in things like that - magic, and things growing, when she was full of so death and nothingness, until him - no, she stops herself, and reconsiders, until her - Hickory.
Her eyes are full of mare and tree, and how the tree is between them again as if Loam intends to keep her distance. But that is silly - Loam could no more keep her distance than she could be good, but she is brought to kindness by Hickory, and moves so that their shoulders can brush when they shift their bodies. Her lips press a sigh to the tangling mess of mane and neck, and the things that are usually said like “I missed you” goes unsaid because Loam said those words once, to a memory that went back to being a memory and only that.