r e c k i t t
crash through the surface
where they can't hurt us
where they can't hurt us
K
itt just stands there, looking out across the meadow between flowing tresses of silver hair, out across the gentle rolls of drying grasses and frost that still adheres to the terrain in the morning light. Her breath hangs on the pristine paleness of her lips, clinging to the fine whiskers before rolling away to meet the breeze, cast away to whisper between the blades and seek purchase in the conversation of the far off trees. Everything is alive, even as Winter takes hold, folds a blanket of stillness upon the world until it slows, patient and waiting for Spring. It makes her thankful for this moment, stuck in her own thoughts, about life and renewal, she has been uncharacteristically selfish in the weeks gone by. This was merely another chapter, another page of blackened ink scrawled upon tinted parchment.
“I’ve been so petulant,” she tells herself softly, watching the movement of those that gather, allowing a tender smile to curve against her jaw. Then a jerking movement takes her, as though she meant to move but something held her back, she wanted to belong here, even if she must find a niche as a long-face. Even if that meant she was no longer a wolf, a thing that still wanted out, settled against her subconscious, tucked far away in her memories. The wolf was there, pacing within her being, knowing that it was caged and feeling disoriented at the realization.
Somewhere, she was still somewhere.
It is now that she takes another breath, though this time to steady herself, to prepare to meet these strangers, but come to find out, she doesn’t have to make the first move.
He is all she is not in appearance, darkest night, blackest smoke. Wings curl against his back, she had always been in awe of those that fly, entranced by the delicate feathers of their flight and impressed by their aerial prowess. She was no graceful thing, and as he walks, she takes him for less coordinated on the ground, this makes her chuckle, a quiet coo. Reckitt herself held no grace as she moved, the limp In her right leg made certain of that, it was her weakness, it was her strength. An unassuming creature, often not taken seriously, often underestimated, her bursts of heroism coming from within- mostly words, forever actions. Nothing of the sword sort.
A greeting interrupts the silence, she could not be troubled by it, in fact, it was a relief.
“Hello,” she returns softly, taking in his display of a wave, “there is much on my mind, enough to fill books,” musing thoughtfully as she speaks. “In truth I am foraging for the Kingdom, Culver’s Root, do you know it?” It was an elegant plant, growing tall and flowered, in white spikes of blooms.
@mateo anyone welcome | "speaks" | notes: 475
