07-08-2019, 07:09 PM
For a moment, she considers saying yes.
Yes, because, why not? But in the end, she tells the truth. Not because the lie would be wrong or rude, but because of what would come next. Questions, perhaps; this mare looks about her age and like someone who already has a follow-up question waiting on the tip of her tongue. Frankly, Neverwhere doesn’t have that kind of energy to spare.
Really, it takes a lot of effort to seem this bored.
She focuses her gaze on the red mare (well, not focuses really, you couldn’t call it that, but she squints a little harder,) shortened ears flicking back once before training in the other’s direction. The solid chestnut coat gleams a bit brighter than the dark tree trunks that surround it, making it easier to take some measure of her.
“No,” she says, pausing, her voice coming with the soft rasp of misuse, her tone distracted, “it was not.”
Neverwhere turns her scarred face back towards the forest depths, as if there are secrets to be gleaned out of that middle distance. The pale tresses of her tail flick lazily, wrapping around her hindlegs.
“It’s the trees.”
While below the canopy, all that one sees are a few small flakes, and droplets of snowmelt, above, the trees are gathering heavy loads of thick, wet, snow. Sometimes, during a thaw, the snow simply slides off the branch, sudden, sharp, and crushing. Sometimes it is rot and boring beetles doing their work, eating away at the body of the tree, but you can’t know where all that snow and wood will crash until it does, and by then it's too late, beyond relevance. The forest has grown quiet again, so that even their foggy breath seems to boom in her ears, loud enough to disturb the avalanche of snow resting above their heads like a cat you know is awake.
"Sometimes, they explode. You might not want to sleep beneath them."
Yes, because, why not? But in the end, she tells the truth. Not because the lie would be wrong or rude, but because of what would come next. Questions, perhaps; this mare looks about her age and like someone who already has a follow-up question waiting on the tip of her tongue. Frankly, Neverwhere doesn’t have that kind of energy to spare.
Really, it takes a lot of effort to seem this bored.
She focuses her gaze on the red mare (well, not focuses really, you couldn’t call it that, but she squints a little harder,) shortened ears flicking back once before training in the other’s direction. The solid chestnut coat gleams a bit brighter than the dark tree trunks that surround it, making it easier to take some measure of her.
“No,” she says, pausing, her voice coming with the soft rasp of misuse, her tone distracted, “it was not.”
Neverwhere turns her scarred face back towards the forest depths, as if there are secrets to be gleaned out of that middle distance. The pale tresses of her tail flick lazily, wrapping around her hindlegs.
“It’s the trees.”
While below the canopy, all that one sees are a few small flakes, and droplets of snowmelt, above, the trees are gathering heavy loads of thick, wet, snow. Sometimes, during a thaw, the snow simply slides off the branch, sudden, sharp, and crushing. Sometimes it is rot and boring beetles doing their work, eating away at the body of the tree, but you can’t know where all that snow and wood will crash until it does, and by then it's too late, beyond relevance. The forest has grown quiet again, so that even their foggy breath seems to boom in her ears, loud enough to disturb the avalanche of snow resting above their heads like a cat you know is awake.
"Sometimes, they explode. You might not want to sleep beneath them."
Neverwhere
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