Reckitt’s emotions run freely down the curve of her pale cheek, tracing soul-bare rivers against the soft ridges of her features. Each salt-stained trail makes the white of her fur stained, as if the dust from the air does not care for the imperfection of her beauty, in truth, she has never thought herself wholly beautiful. The wind could be of no other inclination, she was just another soul was she not, another body carrying out days of existence in futility? There is nothing sharp about the white woman, all meager curves and soft edges, delicate fringe of a spring daisy. Kitt was a breakable thing, considering, there was little toughness to be found in the Druid- she could not be expected to bear the hardened exterior that some chose to carry.
Did she blame them for that choice?
Never.
No harm. Those words could not find a place in her current state to ring without caution, some say one thing, while they mean another- she was not a stranger to twisted meanings. Still, she can not think too ill of this stranger, with wings made of the Night, and eyes like the clearest gem.
There was once a horde of such treasures, somewhere, though as she is fleetingly reminded of the memory, it is but a wisp of thought. Was it even real? For the first time in her rather short existence, she begins to wonder if it is short at all. How many lives was she meant to live? Even the weight of her own body is on the verge of being too much for her now, did she dare seek help in the unknown? His own strength is there, the calm but firm assertion of her needs, before she asks, before she can process the will to know which path was right.
“Thank you,” she says slowly, the words still choked up in her throat as they move against the thickness of her tongue, the worn edges of her new teeth. “Not from here, though you seem to already have figured that out.” Her golden eyes look up, sidelong at the stallion, both curious and full of uncertainty. She was a Goddess once, how does she still balk? It’s another first for the dove, she did not see herself as some great being, never putting herself before others, but would that bring her strength if she could pursue the mindset of the haughty?
“No,” another whisper, though one that can be heard due to the closeness of their frames, one like the untainted snow of a mountaintop. The other the color of burning brick, there was fire on his skin, baking it until it was copper and metal.
“My old life, it was so very different from this one..” each syllable is full of longing, there was too much left behind, bonds that she still hungered for.
@Rouge
gosh i am sorry, i hope this is okay :) <3
