01-15-2017, 10:11 PM
She feels… forgotten.
Because the world forgets it’s strange and marvelous children.
Ichor has lost time, or it has lost her - she cannot be certain which it is, because she feels like she is outside of it, or stuck in its innards and unsure of how to get back out. She is still just a stupid horse, not this fantastic other self that she can feel smashing itself to smithereens inside her chest. Her lungs and heart keep it neatly caged but not quietly - it rages and rages inside her, fanning small fires that inflame her veins until she just wants to scream from the pain and familiarity of it. She thinks she has dreamed of this self that she has only seen mirrored in the rock-pools on the Mountain’s harsh face; a thing that is moth and lamprey and horse, horrible but beautiful.
Yes, Ichor loves herself best.
There are other things that she loves - mother, father, the entire horrible but fantastic brood that is moth and lamprey and horse. Every inch of nightmarish should not have been or how can this be, she loves - it shines in the bug-black of her pathetically normal eyes (the world, this world, her world - so bland!). She thinks of them, how are they and what are they doing? Has seen neither hide nor hair of them since the chance encounter between sisters, and already she forgets how long ago that was!
Long enough for her to have started coming into her own; the legs are lithe and longer, the shape and girth less coltish and more feminine. She starts to look like they do: sleek and shiny, even pretty in this poor shape that pales in comparison to how they all should be (fantastic beasts!). Ichor knows that she can reclaim her heritage, it takes time and a fairy’s benevolence, but it is possible and then her true self can be, but for now, she has four limbs, two ears, flat teeth, and still has trouble forming actual speech around a normal grass-eater’s tongue.
(Ichor might be more cow, than gilled moth these days…)
“Mom?”
“Dad?”
“Someone?”
Each word is broken, forced. Mom sounds like maa-aam as if her throat belongs to a lamb that cannot stop bleating between every syllable. Dad is a frog’s croak, half surprise and half forget about it. Someone, well… that she almost manages if she could get past the stutter and sibilant snake’s hiss.
(Fantastic beasts, remember?)
Because the world forgets it’s strange and marvelous children.
Ichor has lost time, or it has lost her - she cannot be certain which it is, because she feels like she is outside of it, or stuck in its innards and unsure of how to get back out. She is still just a stupid horse, not this fantastic other self that she can feel smashing itself to smithereens inside her chest. Her lungs and heart keep it neatly caged but not quietly - it rages and rages inside her, fanning small fires that inflame her veins until she just wants to scream from the pain and familiarity of it. She thinks she has dreamed of this self that she has only seen mirrored in the rock-pools on the Mountain’s harsh face; a thing that is moth and lamprey and horse, horrible but beautiful.
Yes, Ichor loves herself best.
There are other things that she loves - mother, father, the entire horrible but fantastic brood that is moth and lamprey and horse. Every inch of nightmarish should not have been or how can this be, she loves - it shines in the bug-black of her pathetically normal eyes (the world, this world, her world - so bland!). She thinks of them, how are they and what are they doing? Has seen neither hide nor hair of them since the chance encounter between sisters, and already she forgets how long ago that was!
Long enough for her to have started coming into her own; the legs are lithe and longer, the shape and girth less coltish and more feminine. She starts to look like they do: sleek and shiny, even pretty in this poor shape that pales in comparison to how they all should be (fantastic beasts!). Ichor knows that she can reclaim her heritage, it takes time and a fairy’s benevolence, but it is possible and then her true self can be, but for now, she has four limbs, two ears, flat teeth, and still has trouble forming actual speech around a normal grass-eater’s tongue.
(Ichor might be more cow, than gilled moth these days…)
“Mom?”
“Dad?”
“Someone?”
Each word is broken, forced. Mom sounds like maa-aam as if her throat belongs to a lamb that cannot stop bleating between every syllable. Dad is a frog’s croak, half surprise and half forget about it. Someone, well… that she almost manages if she could get past the stutter and sibilant snake’s hiss.
(Fantastic beasts, remember?)