09-10-2016, 05:43 AM
you won’t see me fall apart
Would she name her?
The thought occurred to Thorunn as she traveled. She knew that Eight lived here, it's part of why she journeyed so far despite her injury. He was as close to family as she had, and simply because he was a familiar face. The thought of finding the Amazons to find Val or her other sister (she can't remember her name, the little snake girl with orange eyes) was far from her mind. Val wasn't there. She didn't need magic to know her sister was long gone and faded into oblivion. The thought was saddening, but it was her new reality.
Accept. Move on.
Would she name the mare? The one with the fleshy horn and the sick grimace?
No, to do so would be her downfall.
It would be weakness not to deal with the mare herself. Her father would have made her do it (She's not sure, she should be sure but she's not. He's fading from her mind these days). She would be judged and saddened to force the responsibility onto another. She's learning now that magic is gone, except on the Mountain, and her healing is gone, except there. A patchwork. She learned - too late - to ask the mountain for her immortality. It's back now, but too little too late. It can't fix, only prevent.
She's a patchwork mess that peers at Eight as the scabs peel off in the cool salt water. There's no open wounds to soak anymore, the Mountain healed it. (She has no memory of the witch mare and her moss hair, healing her in her hedgewitch ways) It's just a fresh scar, keloid and seething, making its way across the right side of her face.
"I don't know," says Thorunn. It's a lie, but she's banking on Eight losing his magic to not be able to tell. She doesn't need to hide him from her mind (She can't, anyway) she's learned this art. Deception, her father called it. Great in battle, even better in life. A lie, truly. It's obviously from a horn, and its intentional swipes are obviously ... well, intentional. She looks him in the eyes as she says this, orange and seething, before wiping the last of the scabbed material on her leg. Fresh, exposed, no longer beautiful like her mother.
Scarred, ugly, like her father.
The thought occurred to Thorunn as she traveled. She knew that Eight lived here, it's part of why she journeyed so far despite her injury. He was as close to family as she had, and simply because he was a familiar face. The thought of finding the Amazons to find Val or her other sister (she can't remember her name, the little snake girl with orange eyes) was far from her mind. Val wasn't there. She didn't need magic to know her sister was long gone and faded into oblivion. The thought was saddening, but it was her new reality.
Accept. Move on.
Would she name the mare? The one with the fleshy horn and the sick grimace?
No, to do so would be her downfall.
It would be weakness not to deal with the mare herself. Her father would have made her do it (She's not sure, she should be sure but she's not. He's fading from her mind these days). She would be judged and saddened to force the responsibility onto another. She's learning now that magic is gone, except on the Mountain, and her healing is gone, except there. A patchwork. She learned - too late - to ask the mountain for her immortality. It's back now, but too little too late. It can't fix, only prevent.
She's a patchwork mess that peers at Eight as the scabs peel off in the cool salt water. There's no open wounds to soak anymore, the Mountain healed it. (She has no memory of the witch mare and her moss hair, healing her in her hedgewitch ways) It's just a fresh scar, keloid and seething, making its way across the right side of her face.
"I don't know," says Thorunn. It's a lie, but she's banking on Eight losing his magic to not be able to tell. She doesn't need to hide him from her mind (She can't, anyway) she's learned this art. Deception, her father called it. Great in battle, even better in life. A lie, truly. It's obviously from a horn, and its intentional swipes are obviously ... well, intentional. She looks him in the eyes as she says this, orange and seething, before wiping the last of the scabbed material on her leg. Fresh, exposed, no longer beautiful like her mother.
Scarred, ugly, like her father.
THORUNN
COVET x LIBRETTE