05-04-2017, 07:01 PM
Bored by stillness she was, without particular grace, rolling a little in the soft grass when Crota’s shadow fell across her from a short distance. She appeared oblivious to the nickered greeting because, well… flowers, I assume. Hello! She froze in position. Then she turned her head without lifting it off the ground and looked up at the pony, her blue eyes wide in over-dramatized surprise. Thin legs akimbo she was a comical tableau for a moment. She righted herself again in a tumble of shimmering limbs, shaking crushed blue flowers and loose stalks of grass from her undergrown mane in a halo of belated spring fever. With Alayaya there was never a suggestion of hesitation. Even her surprise was underscored by her boundless, impossibly founded confidence, and had a happy eagerness to it that was almost palpable around her as, finding herself observed, she made to tuck her feet prettily under her. Her eyes, blue and boundless as the overhead morning sky, were full and attentive to the spotted face Crota had dropped toward her. There was something appraising there, something less light than the attitude she held, or maybe it was just the shadow of her pale forelock, briefly obstructing.
I was wondering if I may joint you? Alayaya’s grin was a living, contagious thing. Crota clearly could not have said anything more right in that moment. Possibly Alayaya sensed that the mare held no ill will toward her, but it was impossible to say if she would have reacted differently had Crota been more reserved. Children do seem often to sense when the adults in the room are not quite behaving like they ought to behave, or want to behave. Perhaps this double standard doesn’t even occur to Alayaya, for whom it seems there is no filter between instinct, action, and energy, and she understood the sincerity behind the words as instinctively as she knew to walk, run and eat the grass. The sun clung to her where she lay. There was no magic to it, just the pale palomino at the right shade and the metallic shimmer of her (ironically stealthy) desert ancestors. She was incandescent in the rich green of the grass which defied the season.
Pose accomplished she wiggled back into action again, scrambling energetically, but once again with a little too much ease and a little too much grace, to her feet. Picking her way carefully, perhaps theatrically, out of the flowers, she came closer to the taller mare. A knot of longer grass hid a divet in the earth to which, unavoidably, Alayaya fell victim. Catching the edge of this hole with a forefoot she tripped forward, and crashed unceremoniously into the leopard-coloured mare. Her lithe, fit little form a mass of reflected sun and summer, hot and radiant and dragging the smell of remembering with her into the chest of the ruler of the Hills. There was a girlish squeal, and a cascade of sunlit, youthful laughter that doesn’t know shame or hurt, but relishes the unexpected. She made a show of righting herself, holding on innocently to Crota for a handful of seconds too long, her trilling laughter vibrant in the air, before she arranged herself beside the older mare, facing her mess of forget-me-nots. “These are my flowers.” Said the golden filly, indicating the patch of forget-me-nots she had nearly destroyed. There was nothing possessive in her tone, more exhibitionist, inviting Crota to admire them and agree that they were exceptional. She waited barely a beat before she issued a clarification, her voice urgent and slow to underscore the importance of her words “They’re not mine” she said “They’re just mine right now.” She seemed satisfied with the logic of that explanation, and she stepped forward again into the blue-green carpet. In any case she added, to make it completely clear; “And yours too.” Of course, Crota laid claim to much more than a patch of temporary flowers, but Alayaya was ignorant, and untroubled by concerns of rank or decorum.
She cocked her head a little and started to say; “Want to…”
The question would have to wait for another opportunity, however, because they were interrupted at that moment by a new voice. Alayaya’s ears turned toward the approaching voice, followed by her pretty pale-coloured face. Her eyes locked on the new approaching figure of blue roan. She stared at Heratfire with assured interest. It appeared that she was not listening, exactly, to Heartfire, but she seemed attuned to something about her that was instantly fascinating. Almost before Heartfire had finished speaking Alayaya had flung herself quickly forward and touched her cheek to the larger mare’s. Alayaya smelled like grass and forget-me-nots and sunshine, like hope and unbroken promises. She pressed herself further forward, against the mare’s chest and neck, the vibrant beat of her heart echoing through her whole body – surprisingly even and measured. Inhaling the smell of Heartfire as she brushed herself against the unfamiliar chest, wrapping herself in the warmth of this one too, before she broke away again and waltzed backward into the center of the flower patch.
She flopped easily down again, with the careless physical grace of someone who doesn’t know you can break bones, or bruise flesh, who’s never had a hurt that couldn’t be soothed with soft words and distraction. A waft of nectar sweetness rose from the crushed petals as she dropped her weight upon them again, like youth itself, fading into the richer scent of the grass. She fell a little off of center this time, leaving room for the Crota in her patch of flowers. No one understood the need for a moment of childish freedom more than Alayaya did. In that moment she did not need mindfulness to know to revel in the softness of the grass, the blue blush of flowers, the smell of new life. As though she knew that Heartfire had no designs on the patch of flowers herself she turned her gaze serenely back to the roan and said, simply, but with unabashed, sibilant command “Come on!”
She had offered no name. Perhaps she assumed the older mares already knew her name. Perhaps she felt that sharing the bed of flowers was more important right now. Perhaps she just wasn’t at an age where she had learned to give it without the preceding question yet. Perhaps it wasn’t her name to give.
I was wondering if I may joint you? Alayaya’s grin was a living, contagious thing. Crota clearly could not have said anything more right in that moment. Possibly Alayaya sensed that the mare held no ill will toward her, but it was impossible to say if she would have reacted differently had Crota been more reserved. Children do seem often to sense when the adults in the room are not quite behaving like they ought to behave, or want to behave. Perhaps this double standard doesn’t even occur to Alayaya, for whom it seems there is no filter between instinct, action, and energy, and she understood the sincerity behind the words as instinctively as she knew to walk, run and eat the grass. The sun clung to her where she lay. There was no magic to it, just the pale palomino at the right shade and the metallic shimmer of her (ironically stealthy) desert ancestors. She was incandescent in the rich green of the grass which defied the season.
Pose accomplished she wiggled back into action again, scrambling energetically, but once again with a little too much ease and a little too much grace, to her feet. Picking her way carefully, perhaps theatrically, out of the flowers, she came closer to the taller mare. A knot of longer grass hid a divet in the earth to which, unavoidably, Alayaya fell victim. Catching the edge of this hole with a forefoot she tripped forward, and crashed unceremoniously into the leopard-coloured mare. Her lithe, fit little form a mass of reflected sun and summer, hot and radiant and dragging the smell of remembering with her into the chest of the ruler of the Hills. There was a girlish squeal, and a cascade of sunlit, youthful laughter that doesn’t know shame or hurt, but relishes the unexpected. She made a show of righting herself, holding on innocently to Crota for a handful of seconds too long, her trilling laughter vibrant in the air, before she arranged herself beside the older mare, facing her mess of forget-me-nots. “These are my flowers.” Said the golden filly, indicating the patch of forget-me-nots she had nearly destroyed. There was nothing possessive in her tone, more exhibitionist, inviting Crota to admire them and agree that they were exceptional. She waited barely a beat before she issued a clarification, her voice urgent and slow to underscore the importance of her words “They’re not mine” she said “They’re just mine right now.” She seemed satisfied with the logic of that explanation, and she stepped forward again into the blue-green carpet. In any case she added, to make it completely clear; “And yours too.” Of course, Crota laid claim to much more than a patch of temporary flowers, but Alayaya was ignorant, and untroubled by concerns of rank or decorum.
She cocked her head a little and started to say; “Want to…”
The question would have to wait for another opportunity, however, because they were interrupted at that moment by a new voice. Alayaya’s ears turned toward the approaching voice, followed by her pretty pale-coloured face. Her eyes locked on the new approaching figure of blue roan. She stared at Heratfire with assured interest. It appeared that she was not listening, exactly, to Heartfire, but she seemed attuned to something about her that was instantly fascinating. Almost before Heartfire had finished speaking Alayaya had flung herself quickly forward and touched her cheek to the larger mare’s. Alayaya smelled like grass and forget-me-nots and sunshine, like hope and unbroken promises. She pressed herself further forward, against the mare’s chest and neck, the vibrant beat of her heart echoing through her whole body – surprisingly even and measured. Inhaling the smell of Heartfire as she brushed herself against the unfamiliar chest, wrapping herself in the warmth of this one too, before she broke away again and waltzed backward into the center of the flower patch.
She flopped easily down again, with the careless physical grace of someone who doesn’t know you can break bones, or bruise flesh, who’s never had a hurt that couldn’t be soothed with soft words and distraction. A waft of nectar sweetness rose from the crushed petals as she dropped her weight upon them again, like youth itself, fading into the richer scent of the grass. She fell a little off of center this time, leaving room for the Crota in her patch of flowers. No one understood the need for a moment of childish freedom more than Alayaya did. In that moment she did not need mindfulness to know to revel in the softness of the grass, the blue blush of flowers, the smell of new life. As though she knew that Heartfire had no designs on the patch of flowers herself she turned her gaze serenely back to the roan and said, simply, but with unabashed, sibilant command “Come on!”
She had offered no name. Perhaps she assumed the older mares already knew her name. Perhaps she felt that sharing the bed of flowers was more important right now. Perhaps she just wasn’t at an age where she had learned to give it without the preceding question yet. Perhaps it wasn’t her name to give.
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