06-27-2015, 11:52 PM
what is dead may never die;
She knows almost nothing, but she knows this place.
She'd followed them here, the words of others who had whispered in the meadow and the field. She'd hung around the fringes, listening in, picking apart their conversations from afar until she got the information she needed. She has never been here before; indeed, she's never been much of anywhere before, but as the land opens up beneath her she knows that she has come to the right place.
Will she find her mother or father here? She isn't sure, and she also isn't sure that it's important. Their identities may be one of the few things she knows with absolute certainty, but there is nothing that drives her to find them. They are simply pillars of her world, things that support her existence. She does not need to converse with them; there are no answers that they can give her. They are as unreachable and unknowable as the sun and the moon, as abstract to her as any constellation. But they are equally vital: without knowledge of them, surely she would be lost.
She walks with desultory, meandering steps. Her pace is slow, but not especially careful. She drinks in the world around her, the bowl of the mountains that give the Valley its name, the choppy landscape that has so obviously (to her, at least) been recently chewed up in a major way. It is healing itself, she can see that too, but it is not yet healed.
The snow is here too, and she likes it no more than she had in the meadow where she'd first found herself. It is cold, and she does not like the cold, but she refuses to shiver. She dreams of a world where she can will the chill from her bones.
Unimpressed, she halts to more effectively survey her surroundings. She must almost blend in, a grey creature against the snowy grey backdrop of the Valley. There is nothing remarkable about her – nothing to indicate who she is, or what she's been, or how little she knows. Perhaps if the ground were not snowy, the wilting plants might tell her story, but it is not spring, and snow does not shy away from the touch of the time-tossed filly-mare, the girl who should not be here, but is.
A stranger, or perhaps really, just strange.
She'd followed them here, the words of others who had whispered in the meadow and the field. She'd hung around the fringes, listening in, picking apart their conversations from afar until she got the information she needed. She has never been here before; indeed, she's never been much of anywhere before, but as the land opens up beneath her she knows that she has come to the right place.
Will she find her mother or father here? She isn't sure, and she also isn't sure that it's important. Their identities may be one of the few things she knows with absolute certainty, but there is nothing that drives her to find them. They are simply pillars of her world, things that support her existence. She does not need to converse with them; there are no answers that they can give her. They are as unreachable and unknowable as the sun and the moon, as abstract to her as any constellation. But they are equally vital: without knowledge of them, surely she would be lost.
She walks with desultory, meandering steps. Her pace is slow, but not especially careful. She drinks in the world around her, the bowl of the mountains that give the Valley its name, the choppy landscape that has so obviously (to her, at least) been recently chewed up in a major way. It is healing itself, she can see that too, but it is not yet healed.
The snow is here too, and she likes it no more than she had in the meadow where she'd first found herself. It is cold, and she does not like the cold, but she refuses to shiver. She dreams of a world where she can will the chill from her bones.
Unimpressed, she halts to more effectively survey her surroundings. She must almost blend in, a grey creature against the snowy grey backdrop of the Valley. There is nothing remarkable about her – nothing to indicate who she is, or what she's been, or how little she knows. Perhaps if the ground were not snowy, the wilting plants might tell her story, but it is not spring, and snow does not shy away from the touch of the time-tossed filly-mare, the girl who should not be here, but is.
A stranger, or perhaps really, just strange.
but rises again
Aletheia
harder and stronger