09-04-2016, 09:23 AM
now don’t you understand…that I’m never changing who I am?
She had heard the calls, even above her prayers for absolution. The sound of a crying child was enough to stir the heart of the utmost hard of hearts, and yet, this one seemed to be crying for someone in particular. In this apocalypse, it was to be expected, unfortunately. Hearts crying out for loved ones, loved ones gone away—dead, or just running.
But she hears the calls nonetheless and finds herself heading off in that direction, sprinting as if her feet were still blessed by the wind. Her ability to run—even without her magic—amazed her, despite her shortish stocky legs. When one is so used to being blessed, one tends to forget the physical abilities that they are possessed with. Such was the case for Reagan.
It is Sunday and she has only just finished her morning Mass; she had bowed her head to God and asked for his forgiveness for the umpteenth time looking for a way to be given back her abilities. It all fell upon deaf ears. And so, without religion or faith to hold her, the Irish woman was as alone as the calls she heard upon the horizon. Perhaps this is the reason she seeks out the child. Perhaps she just wishes to undo the mistakes of her past with so many children behind her, and yet not one of them could actually call her Mother.
She stops in front of a small filly, and notices that the child has been crying. She does not ask—she feels she does not need to. But the old mare reaches down and pulls the young girl to her side and nuzzles her back with the velvety softness of her muzzle, before whispering calmly into the girl’s ear. “I’ve got you…there is no need to cry anymore. Who are you looking for?”
But she hears the calls nonetheless and finds herself heading off in that direction, sprinting as if her feet were still blessed by the wind. Her ability to run—even without her magic—amazed her, despite her shortish stocky legs. When one is so used to being blessed, one tends to forget the physical abilities that they are possessed with. Such was the case for Reagan.
It is Sunday and she has only just finished her morning Mass; she had bowed her head to God and asked for his forgiveness for the umpteenth time looking for a way to be given back her abilities. It all fell upon deaf ears. And so, without religion or faith to hold her, the Irish woman was as alone as the calls she heard upon the horizon. Perhaps this is the reason she seeks out the child. Perhaps she just wishes to undo the mistakes of her past with so many children behind her, and yet not one of them could actually call her Mother.
She stops in front of a small filly, and notices that the child has been crying. She does not ask—she feels she does not need to. But the old mare reaches down and pulls the young girl to her side and nuzzles her back with the velvety softness of her muzzle, before whispering calmly into the girl’s ear. “I’ve got you…there is no need to cry anymore. Who are you looking for?”