05-25-2020, 10:45 PM
Something winged swoops by her, and nearly as quickly, she bites at the air behind it, almost surprised to find herself without a single feather between her teeth. Although she knows Aten has a companion animal, she is not nearly so familiar with Turul that she could recognize him today or without the champagne stallion nearby. It seems unlikely that the gyrfalcon here is that companion, but even if it were, and even if she had caught those black-and-white checked feathers, she would not have apologized for the plucking. He should know better than to fly so close, she would have explained drily, and now he does.
The hypothetical situation gets her nowhere, but it reflects her continued sense of unease. Nothing about her softens to find the bird resting harmlessly on a nearby branch, posing no obvious threat. Nothing about her settles or accepts it for what it is. Beqanna has not made her less distrustful, not when horses can be birds and fish and trees. Not when they can be shadows and ghosts, and any number of seemingly innocuous things, so she sneers at the creature in full knowledge that it may simply be a raptor resting between flights.
And if it isn’t?
She doesn't know that it is Wolfbane, of course. It could be anybody. The knowledge of it makes her bristle.
The colt is dreaming, now. His eyes twitch and he kicks out with a still-soft hoof, striking Neverwhere’s forehooves with a clatter that draws her attention away from the bird and back to her son. There is a distinct coldness in her that she suspects is not the norm, that she knows from watching the way Eurwen and Lilliana reach out and share small moments with their own children is not the way she is supposed to feel. The dappled mare is unsure if this is due to the nature of the boy’s conception, or if it is just the way she feels about foals – any foal, even her own. She has never felt the urge or desire to bear or raise children, and perhaps the reason for that disinterest is everything that holds her back from being affectionate towards the tobacco-and-gold boy snuffling at her feet with dirt clinging to his whiskers.
Though her ears follow every rustle of the gyrfalcon’s movement, every rustle of feather, her head drops low again to brush against the colt, seeking to quiet the gymnastics he performs in his sleep. She wonders if she would have let Lepis do as she had threatened. “I wonder if you would have just healed yourself if Lepis pushed you over the edge of one of those red towers,” she whispers softly into the warm, plush, down of his newborn wings. She thinks that she might have let it happen. And that she probably should have.
The hypothetical situation gets her nowhere, but it reflects her continued sense of unease. Nothing about her softens to find the bird resting harmlessly on a nearby branch, posing no obvious threat. Nothing about her settles or accepts it for what it is. Beqanna has not made her less distrustful, not when horses can be birds and fish and trees. Not when they can be shadows and ghosts, and any number of seemingly innocuous things, so she sneers at the creature in full knowledge that it may simply be a raptor resting between flights.
And if it isn’t?
She doesn't know that it is Wolfbane, of course. It could be anybody. The knowledge of it makes her bristle.
The colt is dreaming, now. His eyes twitch and he kicks out with a still-soft hoof, striking Neverwhere’s forehooves with a clatter that draws her attention away from the bird and back to her son. There is a distinct coldness in her that she suspects is not the norm, that she knows from watching the way Eurwen and Lilliana reach out and share small moments with their own children is not the way she is supposed to feel. The dappled mare is unsure if this is due to the nature of the boy’s conception, or if it is just the way she feels about foals – any foal, even her own. She has never felt the urge or desire to bear or raise children, and perhaps the reason for that disinterest is everything that holds her back from being affectionate towards the tobacco-and-gold boy snuffling at her feet with dirt clinging to his whiskers.
Though her ears follow every rustle of the gyrfalcon’s movement, every rustle of feather, her head drops low again to brush against the colt, seeking to quiet the gymnastics he performs in his sleep. She wonders if she would have let Lepis do as she had threatened. “I wonder if you would have just healed yourself if Lepis pushed you over the edge of one of those red towers,” she whispers softly into the warm, plush, down of his newborn wings. She thinks that she might have let it happen. And that she probably should have.
@[Wolfbane]
