Rowling
Fall is a grand time if you ask Rowling. Leaves changing to magnificent hues of orange, blinding lemon yellows and harsh tones of crimson. The grasses underhoof turn as well, yellow and dull and dry, though he can’t help but like that too. The Dale is a nice place, a quiet place but a nice place if anyone was to ask the little blue colt. Well, if they could ask him, if he could hear their questions.
Rowling had been born deaf, gifted, but also deaf. Where others could hear the chirping of the birds in the grand towers of trees, Rowling could hear the absence of it, only silence, only nothing. To say that he heard these things isn’t truth, only a wish, only an idea of pretend. Instead of learning the art of speech, the act of eloquence, the roaned boy learned something else. Something quite different, even by Beqanna standards it seems. Instead of speech he learned writing, he learned letters and numbers, Rowling learned to use what he the fae had given him. Of course he could never read an actual book (havn’t any lying around you see), he would never hold a pen to paper, but he did have something that would serve. Rowling had snow, he had ice-
Rowling had Christmas.
Of course the whole thing was Mother’s idea, best to learn, best be taught. Mother had Christmas as well, Mother knew words and letters and shapes. Now it was small things he had learned so far, short words and ideas that he could ask or express, but it was terribly hard to converse with those who did not know the meaning of what was written in the snow. Needless to say, Rowling spent a lot of time frustrated, feelings of disclusion sitting heavy on his otherwise perky disposition. Sometimes he had to use pictures, statues to try and convey his meaning but even then- have you ever played pictionary with a horse? A one sided game?
Today he was at the center of the meadow, nosing about in the changing grasses and nibbling tenderly at a wilting wildflower. This flower tastes good, I wonder what it’s called?” he thought as plucked the weed from the earth and steadily chewed it up. He was just within eyesight of Mom and Eira but otherwise they had left him to his exploring, far too busy swooning over one another he expected. Instead of moping the little roaned boy began to gallop about, jumping and bucking in intervals trying to rid himself of his boredom. When that wasn’t enough he began playing with a small drift a snow he had summoned himself, checking once over his shoulder for the hue of red and bay just on the horizon. Once he deemed no one was to interrupt his game, he began tossing himself in the cool mix and rolling about. Tiny snowflakes clung to his long lashes and spattered his ebon hair with polka-dots, his bright amber eyes peeked about their surroundings, always hopeful for someone to play with.
Rowling had been born deaf, gifted, but also deaf. Where others could hear the chirping of the birds in the grand towers of trees, Rowling could hear the absence of it, only silence, only nothing. To say that he heard these things isn’t truth, only a wish, only an idea of pretend. Instead of learning the art of speech, the act of eloquence, the roaned boy learned something else. Something quite different, even by Beqanna standards it seems. Instead of speech he learned writing, he learned letters and numbers, Rowling learned to use what he the fae had given him. Of course he could never read an actual book (havn’t any lying around you see), he would never hold a pen to paper, but he did have something that would serve. Rowling had snow, he had ice-
Rowling had Christmas.
Of course the whole thing was Mother’s idea, best to learn, best be taught. Mother had Christmas as well, Mother knew words and letters and shapes. Now it was small things he had learned so far, short words and ideas that he could ask or express, but it was terribly hard to converse with those who did not know the meaning of what was written in the snow. Needless to say, Rowling spent a lot of time frustrated, feelings of disclusion sitting heavy on his otherwise perky disposition. Sometimes he had to use pictures, statues to try and convey his meaning but even then- have you ever played pictionary with a horse? A one sided game?
Today he was at the center of the meadow, nosing about in the changing grasses and nibbling tenderly at a wilting wildflower. This flower tastes good, I wonder what it’s called?” he thought as plucked the weed from the earth and steadily chewed it up. He was just within eyesight of Mom and Eira but otherwise they had left him to his exploring, far too busy swooning over one another he expected. Instead of moping the little roaned boy began to gallop about, jumping and bucking in intervals trying to rid himself of his boredom. When that wasn’t enough he began playing with a small drift a snow he had summoned himself, checking once over his shoulder for the hue of red and bay just on the horizon. Once he deemed no one was to interrupt his game, he began tossing himself in the cool mix and rolling about. Tiny snowflakes clung to his long lashes and spattered his ebon hair with polka-dots, his bright amber eyes peeked about their surroundings, always hopeful for someone to play with.
the mind is not a book to be opened at will and examined at leisure