Tamran
I want to be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren.
The Faithful
I want to be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren.
The Faithful
He had never lived in a desert before, didn't know what to expect and so every day was a little more... interesting. He had found a cactus that shot out it's spines-dear Light it hurt why did that thing exist??-, a mouse that howled at him when he walked past, but best and highest of all in his mind was the discovery of the date-palms. He didn't know the dates were edible, not at first, though they smelled intriguing and made his mouth water. He was wise enough to not eat them despite that, not until he knew what they were-he had seen the trauma and illnesses brought on by those who ate first and asked questions after, if they lived- but when he saw another equine passing through the oasis take a date in her mouth and chew it... well, for a short span the sandy boy followed her, observing her, waiting to see if she would keel over.
When she didn't, and she left the oasis, he once more returned to the date palms to examine the drying fruit scattered about the sand. They seemed innocuous enough, and finally the young healer's curiosity got the better of him as he gingerly picked up a date in his lips, probing it with his tongue and rolling it around on his teeth before crunching down.
Sweetness, sweet and sugary nirvana exploded on his tongue, and it startled him a great deal, his hooves scuffling in the sand as he rolled the sweet fruit against his teeth. Sweetness, pure, nothing else. No foul taste, no shocking bitterness. Just.... sweet. It made him long for something, something that suddenly made his heart twist and clench in his chest with a choked sob. It was a taste of mother's milk, of warm eyes and soft scents washing over him, of a deep voice and booming laughter. The date choked him with it's sweetness, sweetness he adored and hurt for, and his head dropped to search out more, to chase those sweet memories despite their cruel twisting in his heart. He wept, he sobbed, he searched, gathering the sweet fruits until his cheeks strained, until the cloying sweetness flooded his mouth and throat and he drowned in the nostalgia of his childhood. Until he could recall with such painful, vivid detail the carved face of his father who's name he didn't even remember. Until he could remember his mother's heartbroken cry as he was pulled from her, silenced so abruptly.
They were gone, and for the first time in years, he wept not just for himself but for them, for the parents who had loved him, fought for him, died for him. For the boy of spun sugar who melted away at the first rain of hardship. For a homeland he could hardly remember burned away in the bloodied fires of war.
He wept, with the sweetest taste of childhood lost on his lips.
When she didn't, and she left the oasis, he once more returned to the date palms to examine the drying fruit scattered about the sand. They seemed innocuous enough, and finally the young healer's curiosity got the better of him as he gingerly picked up a date in his lips, probing it with his tongue and rolling it around on his teeth before crunching down.
Sweetness, sweet and sugary nirvana exploded on his tongue, and it startled him a great deal, his hooves scuffling in the sand as he rolled the sweet fruit against his teeth. Sweetness, pure, nothing else. No foul taste, no shocking bitterness. Just.... sweet. It made him long for something, something that suddenly made his heart twist and clench in his chest with a choked sob. It was a taste of mother's milk, of warm eyes and soft scents washing over him, of a deep voice and booming laughter. The date choked him with it's sweetness, sweetness he adored and hurt for, and his head dropped to search out more, to chase those sweet memories despite their cruel twisting in his heart. He wept, he sobbed, he searched, gathering the sweet fruits until his cheeks strained, until the cloying sweetness flooded his mouth and throat and he drowned in the nostalgia of his childhood. Until he could recall with such painful, vivid detail the carved face of his father who's name he didn't even remember. Until he could remember his mother's heartbroken cry as he was pulled from her, silenced so abruptly.
They were gone, and for the first time in years, he wept not just for himself but for them, for the parents who had loved him, fought for him, died for him. For the boy of spun sugar who melted away at the first rain of hardship. For a homeland he could hardly remember burned away in the bloodied fires of war.
He wept, with the sweetest taste of childhood lost on his lips.
PALEASMILK
@Siavax - i hate you ink
