"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Delicate things are pretty - cute, even, but you are not delicate. You are wild and lewd and unpredictable. You are breathtaking. You are beautiful.
Sometimes life is difficult, even when someone is born special. Like me. Once upon a time, long ago, I thought life would be easy. A breeze, something to enjoy, a time for love and happiness with no pain or worry. It is that, but it is so much more. Of course, I was a child then.
I am not a child anymore, not by a long shot. I thought I would have friendship and ease back then, but I have found both to be rarer than I had once imagined. I have discovered that friendships come and go, that life is far more a roller coaster than a simple, easy slide. Would that it were, for I would certainly be much further along in life.
Instead I have found those incredible highs, only to be dropped back so low I wonder if I shall ever rise again. Of course, I always do. Life is always moving forward. One can never go backwards, and that is something I am grateful for every single day. Especially for a woman like me, in my rather unique position.
You see, I am something a bit different. Special, as I mentioned before. Unique and beautiful and singular. Unfortunately though, not everyone sees it like that. The thing is, I have a third eye. Right there, in the very center of my head, for all the world to see (and for me to see all the world, but that is quite beside the point). It’s hard to see past sometimes.
Or perhaps, it’s simply hard for me to see past.
In any case, I am here, in the meadow once more. Try and try again, or so the saying goes. And I will keep trying forever, if that is what it takes.
Though she has no real fire (not like those who have been blessed with the faeries’ favor), there is something burning and smoldering within her, easily seen in the blazing red of her eyes and in the determined, purposeful way she walks through the meadow. It is something within her that is not physical, yet is still palpable. She allows it to swallow her, to let it become her strength and her power, though in reality she has nothing – yet. She has been too stagnant for too long; feeling lazy and fat as she soaks up the sun in Loess. She is out of shape and it took a stranger for her to realize that she has become entirely too weak.
The meadow holds no meaning for her; there is no fond memories here that comes to her mind as she enters, nothing that sparks any joy or remembrance in her soul. It causes a scowl, ugly and unattractive to crawl onto the dark of her lips, red eyes scouring the vast landscape – she searches for something, she knows, but she cannot seem to pinpoint what that something is.
She will know when she sees it.
The summer air had easily given in to the chill of autumn, the once green grasses that laced the meadow in summer now becoming a bit dry, snapping and crackling beneath her heavy-footed steps. The sparse trees that pepper the vast landscape have begun to wilt in response to the cooler temperatures, their bright green leaves slowly beginning their metamorphosis to browns, yellows, and oranges. The breeze, chilly and frigid, plays with the fiery red tendrils of her mane and tail, spinning it around her ebony body and brushing against the freckled red of her shoulders and haunches.
Suddenly, she stops moving.
With a snort, Merida quickly takes a few steps back, her blazing red eyes focusing onto the golden and white mare that she had nearly passed. She is met with the same intense stare, red and aflame, except it was times three. Merida does not react outwardly, but merely continues to gaze at this stranger, her face emotionless.
“What do you see?”
Her voice is quiet on the wind, tendrils of red licking around her face like flames from a fire.
Delicate things are pretty - cute, even, but you are not delicate. You are wild and lewd and unpredictable. You are breathtaking. You are beautiful.
Fall is a beautiful, bountiful time of year. It is one of my favorite times, though not nearly so favored as spring. The changes are what I find so fascinating, the shifting from one to another. Like me, a metamorphosis that is impossible to define but beautiful to witness.
But the fall colors, those are my colors. The brilliant hues of gold and russet and amber. The perfect setting for the lovely mottled gold of my coat, the sleekness of my black tresses, the purity of the white perforating it all. A brilliant combination that complements me in ways few things ever could. All things I can see so easily, can admire in ways others can’t.
And there, just before me, is another such creature. A creature of vibrant red and glistening black. For whatever reason, I am drawn to those colors, the stark and brilliant contrast that cannot help but to draw the eye. And when one has an extra eye to draw, it is all the more noticeable.
At first I do not think too much of it, she is just another passing figure, albeit one that draws the attention. But then the ember is approaching me, and I am intrigued. Would she behold my true beauty, or would she mock me like so many before her (though I know it is only the thoughts of small minds, it stings nevertheless). Instead, she asks me a question. Something no one has ever thought to ask before.
In my surprise, I give the only answer I can think of on such short notice. “Everything.” But then, as the bewilderment settles, I reconsider my answer. In the end though, I leave it as it is, for it is, in essence, true. Instead, I offer her a smile, one winsome and true. “I see you. Who are you?”
She cannot help the curiosity that pricks familiarly inside her, a feeling that has rested for too long and now seems to ignite with the fiercest coil within her belly. Even with the coolness of autumn that drapes around her like a frigid cloak, the fire that stirs inside her refuses to be quenched. As she steps forward, closer to the stranger, her neck and haunches glimmer with the freckled red, lively embers burning on the soot of her sleek, ebony skin. The gazes of the tri-colored mare meets her own without hesitation, boring into Merida with a stare that is not challenging, but a stare of one who is ready for anything, glimmering with the hope of optimism but not quite the look of naivety – a look that is familiar to Merida.
The black and red mare is not surprised by the answer; of course, she sees everything. Merida would have been disappointed if she could not. However, the curiosity ebbs and grows, wondering just how far ‘everything’ goes and how deep she could truly see. Merida’s blazing red gaze narrows thoughtfully, the tangled and thick mess of her equally red forelock twisting over the flat of her broad nose.
‘I see you.’
The statement is not a threat as it leaves the blackness of her lips, her voice genuine and merely factual as it again reaches Merida’s ears. The mare yearns for more, though; what can she see? The mare smiles easily at her, in such a way that her own lips part into its own smirk, twitching lopsidedly across her mouth.
“I am Merida, of Loess.”For now, she doesn’t add. She is equally as wayward as she is inquisitive, though stubbornness is what seems to be getting her into trouble these days. A new leader with a new pecking order sends sparks flying, which is one reason Merida has found herself in the forest today. “And who, my friend, are you?”
Delicate things are pretty - cute, even, but you are not delicate. You are wild and lewd and unpredictable. You are breathtaking. You are beautiful.
For a few, quiet moments, I trace the way red marbles with black, the way her bright tresses flicker like firelight in the golden rays of the sun. It really truly is lovely, and I particularly enjoy lovely things.
She surprises me though. Surprises me with her unbridled acceptance. She is curious of course, but who wouldn’t be? I am a curiosity, even in a world of curiosities. But instead of recoiling at my rather blithe, uninformative reply, her curiosity is piqued. In return, so is mine.
Blinking my eyes, several times, I pause a moment to stretch my muzzle forward. Shaking my head, black tresses flying wildly, I brace myself as the shudder passes along the entirety of my body, gold and white skin shivering in the invigorating, energizing shimmy I had just forced along my body.
Black lips stretching into a grin, I turn my widened gaze back to the young red and black mare still waiting on me, my dark locks a wild halo around my neck. After a moment, it occurs to me that she may be put off by my odd behavior. Lord, I sure hope not. I do not have enough friends. It is a rather lonely existence without friends. But I put that aside, instead pinning her with my wide, captivating gaze. “Well, Merida of Loess, I am Giohde. Of, um, well, nowhere really. But that doesn’t matter much, I hope.” My odd eyes fair twinkle, my head tipping slightly as I consider her further. “What matters is who we are, don’t you think?”
Merida does not pry. She has never been one to let her curiosity send her into the depths of something she cannot get herself out of (prior experience has quelled that habit). A third eye, though – truly remarkable. Did this woman possess a possible portal into another realm of consciousness? Has she truly seen everything within those blazing pupils? It begs many questions, though Merida is not sure if the mare will divulge if prompted, at least not yet. Merida continues to keep her eye contact with Giohde, holding her gaze strongly yet kindly.
The ebony mare steps forward thoughtlessly as the woman reaches towards her, enamored somewhat by the twinkling eye that bores into her. The painted woman shakes herself and Merida withdraws, bringing her chin near her chest with a soft snort.
Merida has always been cautious with those who are traited (“blessed by the faeries”, she’s sure some would say). She wrinkles her nose slightly at the thought, not at all convinced that the faeries ‘bless’. They give freely, to those who deserve it and to those who do not – it was a sham, giving out such power to whoever asks nicely. It should be earned, not given. Do these horses even know how to defend themselves or live without such frivolities?
However, despite all her thoughts about powers and abilities, her blazing red eyes considers the mare before her and silently decides that if there were to be any magic about her, she most likely would have deserved the faeries’ blessing.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replies in agreement, repeating her words with a flick of her tail against her sparkling flank. A place did not matter, while a great deal of many other things did; such as morality, loyalty, devotion, dedication. The list goes on.
“Then who am I, Giohde? Besides Merida of Loess, what do see who I am?”
Maybe her eye is merely a feature, a physicality that makes her unique. That is all Merida has – her striking colors end with just that. Though she feels her spirit boil in her veins, there is no magic accompanying it.
Delicate things are pretty - cute, even, but you are not delicate. You are wild and lewd and unpredictable. You are breathtaking. You are beautiful.
In some ways, a physicality could be just as powerful, just as potent, as the intangible. My eye, though it is mere a physical anomaly, lends me a knowledge and insight that few, if any, others possess.
In truth, I've never had to consider in any depth the anomaly I present. Oh sure, I know I'm odd. Strange and unique and altogether different, but that is not to say I have given it much thought before. Had the mare stepped outside the bounds of propriety and asked directly of my additional eye, she would have found me quite receptive to the discussion. I am quite given to introspection anyway, and that is a conducive question.
Of course, she had not, so instead I smile benignly at her, matching her gaze for fiery gaze, blissfully unaware of thoughts of fairies or blessings or whether one might be deserving or not (indeed, my thoughts are limited on this subject anyway. What can I say, the fairies are fickle creatures).
Instead she continues the conversation in the same vein as before, and this new question intrigues me. “Hmmm.” For several long minutes, that is the only sounds that escapes me lips.
Ducking my head a bit, I tilt it this way and that, my body swaying side to side, neck stretching and head swinging out as I seek better angles. No doubt I look quite strange, though at the moment, the thought doesn't occur to me. Finally, I tuck my head back in, body stilling as my gaze seeks hers once more.
“You are many things,” I finally add, voice softly pensive. “Like fire. You don't just look like it, you feel like it.” After another moment of staring, I shrug, a lazy lifting of my shoulders. “I can't really tell you more beyond that.”
Merida continues to watch the painted mare carefully, her burning red gaze openly staring into that middle eye. Giodhe takes her time in answering, causing Merida’s head to tilt slightly, red tendrils spinning around the long angles of her face and neck. She maneuvers around Merida without truly moving; glancing at her with different slow blinks and hums.
Merida’s ears flick backwards with sudden uncertainty beneath Giodhe's stare, bringing her chin close to her chest in thought. Maybe she did not want to know what Giodhe could see in her; maybe she was not ready to hear what truly lies beneath her ebony skin and her muscles warm with blood and oxygen, beneath the bone and tissue. The black mare snorts sharply, a flick of her tail whipping red against her smooth, black flank.
Fire.
Merida’s chin releases from her chest, the tight curve of her neck disappearing as the muscles stretch her head forward, elongating her appearance as she steps closer to Giodhe. Her head tilts curiously, a single brow rising in amusement. Her interest swells once more, growing and surging beneath her. “Curious…” she says softly, her voice a mere whisper on the dry and crisp autumn air. What an amazing feature, she thinks. To be able to lift a veil and peer beneath, exposing what hides (albeit broad) beneath the surface.
“Feel? You can see feelings?” Things that were meant to be touched, to be felt? Her voice is quiet yet light, pricking with fascination. Truly intriguing. She asks Giohde but one question, though a million begin rage in her head, begging to set loose from her onyx lips.
She waits, though, worried that too many questions at once would lead to too many answers that would lay beyond where her mind could follow.
Delicate things are pretty - cute, even, but you are not delicate. You are wild and lewd and unpredictable. You are breathtaking. You are beautiful.
It certainly would be nice if I could read people as though they were books. See the shape and color of their thoughts and feelings. Much much easier too, I suspect. Alas, I am not so lucky. I have an extra eye, but it lends me only sight. An unusual sight, to be sure, but certainly nothing supernatural. No, the reading of people is far more practice than gift. It is easy enough to see what is inside people if one knows what to look for.
Still, I always run the possibility of being wrong.
But this girl, she seems rather nervous about what I might see in her. I suppose it is rather vain of me to let her continue believing I am more than I am. But a girl has to have some mystery, doesn’t she? And, I mean, it does feel rather nice to have someone caring about my opinion, caring about more than just my physical appearance. I am more than just my extra eye, after all.
For a moment, I feel a bit chagrined as she steps forward, uttering that single word. Curious… and silently I think “Is it?” But I don’t say anything, and she is continuing, asking me about what I see. Or, well, she seems to think its feelings, which makes sense. I had been a bit vague. But then, I’d really had no choice. I can’t actually see much in truth, and other than what impressions I had been left with, I had little else to go on. Of course, everything I had said is true, but it is more of a vague sense of feeling rather than anything I truly saw.
Oh dear, what have I gotten myself into? I seem to have a rather bad habit of doing that.
“Hmm, no, not really,” I respond thoughtfully, my amber gaze going a bit distant. “It’s more just a feeling. You know, like, that’s kinda what you feel like. Like a wayward tongue of flame, a bit wild and ephemeral and unpredictable.” I pause before sighing, my unusual gaze focusing upon her once more. “I’m not really sure how else to describe it.”
