what is dead may never die;
She hasn't been back to the meadow, not since she'd first found herself here, and then found herself over to the Valley just as quickly as possible. But today she makes an exception because today she's dared to hope. She's just come from the field, where she'd tried (unsuccessfully) to recruit. She's run out of options there, in the land where horses go to find new homes, and so she's trying her luck here, where they can often stay and linger and may not want home at all. It's a long shot, but it's her duty to her home to never give up, not so long as there are options available.
In this, she is so like her mother.
The sun is hot on her back, but not unpleasantly so. Aletheia is grey, and has never known herself to be anything but. She doesn't know how old she is, or when she was born, or even where she was born. She simply knows that one day she was here in the meadow. There were things before that, she knows that too, but trying to remember all of that is like trying to pin a shadow to a wall, or like trying to hold water in your hands. No matter what, it just streams back out.
Entering the meadow, the girl sighs. Everywhere she steps the grass seems to shrink away from her, as though it's trying to flee the contact. She doesn't linger long enough for it to turn brown, to fade almost to the point of death, but it would if she did. She keeps her sleeping to one spot in the Valley, and sleeps standing up as much as she can exactly for that reason: every time she sleeps on a fresh patch of grass, it inevitably is dull, brown, and almost dead by the time she wakes up. It will recover, but it will take it some time to get back to its former, radiant self.
Standing on the edge of the meadow in the summer sun, the girl looks around. Most horses are paired off, standing in small groups and chatting amiably. She doesn't want to risk interrupting a group; she's not here to make herself a nuisance.
It's then that she spots a solitary girl, young, weaving her way through the rest, unattached. Something about this girl gives her a strange feeling, and that's enough for her to decide to investigate. She moves toward the girl without hesitation, being careful not to touch any of the horses as she pursues her through the crowded meadow.
She catches up to the girl as she moves from one group to the next. Her face is its usual blank and neutral, but now that she's closer she's even more intrigued. As she stands in the bright meadow, the grass by her feet is already starting to wilt. "You don't feel like them." she says, her voice flatly curious. She doesn't bother introducing herself, not now. She's only just become aware that she can, very vaguely, feel a connection to horses she is near. She'd taken it for granted, hadn’t thought on it, because it was simply present with every horse, and so she assumed it was merely natural. Now, she finds herself questioning. Her icy gaze is riveted on Antimony, but her voice is light, almost innocently curious . "Why?"
In this, she is so like her mother.
The sun is hot on her back, but not unpleasantly so. Aletheia is grey, and has never known herself to be anything but. She doesn't know how old she is, or when she was born, or even where she was born. She simply knows that one day she was here in the meadow. There were things before that, she knows that too, but trying to remember all of that is like trying to pin a shadow to a wall, or like trying to hold water in your hands. No matter what, it just streams back out.
Entering the meadow, the girl sighs. Everywhere she steps the grass seems to shrink away from her, as though it's trying to flee the contact. She doesn't linger long enough for it to turn brown, to fade almost to the point of death, but it would if she did. She keeps her sleeping to one spot in the Valley, and sleeps standing up as much as she can exactly for that reason: every time she sleeps on a fresh patch of grass, it inevitably is dull, brown, and almost dead by the time she wakes up. It will recover, but it will take it some time to get back to its former, radiant self.
Standing on the edge of the meadow in the summer sun, the girl looks around. Most horses are paired off, standing in small groups and chatting amiably. She doesn't want to risk interrupting a group; she's not here to make herself a nuisance.
It's then that she spots a solitary girl, young, weaving her way through the rest, unattached. Something about this girl gives her a strange feeling, and that's enough for her to decide to investigate. She moves toward the girl without hesitation, being careful not to touch any of the horses as she pursues her through the crowded meadow.
She catches up to the girl as she moves from one group to the next. Her face is its usual blank and neutral, but now that she's closer she's even more intrigued. As she stands in the bright meadow, the grass by her feet is already starting to wilt. "You don't feel like them." she says, her voice flatly curious. She doesn't bother introducing herself, not now. She's only just become aware that she can, very vaguely, feel a connection to horses she is near. She'd taken it for granted, hadn’t thought on it, because it was simply present with every horse, and so she assumed it was merely natural. Now, she finds herself questioning. Her icy gaze is riveted on Antimony, but her voice is light, almost innocently curious . "Why?"
but rises again
Aletheia
harder and stronger