07-15-2015, 09:48 PM
what is dead may never die;
"I-I-" she stammers, unsure of how to explain it, but desperately wishing she could. Her face remains calm, but her icy eyes are concerned. "I'm not sure, but I didn't mean to." her voice is painfully earnest, but it is still unhurried. She does not trip over herself to apologize. "I think…it's simply something that happens with me. I didn't know it would happen with a horse." The words flow more quickly now, her gaze flicking uneasily between Dimora and the ground.
"I've never…been touched by another horse, that I can remember." she admits, her eyes fixed on Dimora. Her voice is detached and curious, as though she is a scientist observing her condition from far away. For most horses, the lack of touch would be seriously troubling, could be the kind of thing that ruins a soul. For Aletheia, it is merely a fact of life, something worth pondering for its scientific merits, but not something that will actively bother her.
Is she strange because she lacks things like touch, or does she lack things like touch because she is so strange she never wanted them?
Undaunted, the grey girl stands her ground. Dimora seems to accept that she means no harm, or at least, accept it enough not to immediately run away. Instead, she tells Aletheia about the father she's come to find. It does not occur to Aletheia that in this they are parallel. Aletheia is here because she is seeking her own roots. Not in the same concrete way that Dimora is; Aletheia knows that if her parents were here, she'd have found them by now. But she also never wanted to find them, or at least, not as such. She was driven by a desire for this place, which was their place. They both are secondary.
"Covet." she tastes the name like a ghost on her lips. "No, I don't know him." She doesn't know much of anyone, but she does not say that. "But he's the one that gave you the orange eyes." she states, with absolute and unshakeable confidence. "I don't think he is knowable, not anymore." she speaks in accidental riddles. "You'll want to talk to Thorrun. Covet was her father too." she pauses then, her voice unhurried. Her tone is flat, neither sympathetic nor callous – simply speaking a truth, or what she suspects is a truth. "I think that he is dead."
"I've never…been touched by another horse, that I can remember." she admits, her eyes fixed on Dimora. Her voice is detached and curious, as though she is a scientist observing her condition from far away. For most horses, the lack of touch would be seriously troubling, could be the kind of thing that ruins a soul. For Aletheia, it is merely a fact of life, something worth pondering for its scientific merits, but not something that will actively bother her.
Is she strange because she lacks things like touch, or does she lack things like touch because she is so strange she never wanted them?
Undaunted, the grey girl stands her ground. Dimora seems to accept that she means no harm, or at least, accept it enough not to immediately run away. Instead, she tells Aletheia about the father she's come to find. It does not occur to Aletheia that in this they are parallel. Aletheia is here because she is seeking her own roots. Not in the same concrete way that Dimora is; Aletheia knows that if her parents were here, she'd have found them by now. But she also never wanted to find them, or at least, not as such. She was driven by a desire for this place, which was their place. They both are secondary.
"Covet." she tastes the name like a ghost on her lips. "No, I don't know him." She doesn't know much of anyone, but she does not say that. "But he's the one that gave you the orange eyes." she states, with absolute and unshakeable confidence. "I don't think he is knowable, not anymore." she speaks in accidental riddles. "You'll want to talk to Thorrun. Covet was her father too." she pauses then, her voice unhurried. Her tone is flat, neither sympathetic nor callous – simply speaking a truth, or what she suspects is a truth. "I think that he is dead."
but rises again
Aletheia
harder and stronger