r e c k i t t
crash through the surface
where they can't hurt us
where they can't hurt us
I
f she knew more of him, she would be inclined to say it was luck that they had met, or perhaps it was more a hand of fate. A gentle coaxing of the Winter wind, brushing them both into the presence of one another, lending assistance to our dear woman who could surely use more friends. While Mateo was the noisy sort, boundless energy in forms of speech or song, Reckitt was a quiet being. A listener, an intent ear to those that might need one, and she did enjoy a good story, a melodic song or string of poetry. Truth be told, she could even manage to express elation at bad chorus or misshapen haikus, she tends to encourage others to continue growing their art, practice makes perfect. They could not be more different, if she truly knew him.
Kitt was the Omega of her pack, something that felt like lifetimes ago. Even if it was, come to think of it, and at that her face takes on a quizzical mask, contemplating her own revelations- but only for a moment, a fading breath. The pale horse had been subjected to pain, discipline, at the hands of her own kind and had still managed to be the one to instigate play, the one who cared for them in their time of need. The one to see them to the end, if that is what was required of her, and she did so with grace, left them with their dignity. Was she honestly at the bottom?
“Do you know it?” she asks him, eyes like torches, golden against her silver face. He does, though if he didn’t she would not have retracted her invitation to forage, smiling as he pressed his lips to a plant of similar features. “Perhaps this one,” she places her own whiskered chin to another, there was no need for a scene of correction, it was like a gentle tug of his eyes to the appropriate green, he could do what he would with the information. Before loosing the plant, Kitt begins whispering unintelligibly, a chant, a prayer, a thanks, before releasing the foliage from the earth. Everything from the Earth was a gift, she did not pull flowers from their beds on a whim, always taking what she needed, and only what she would use.
There is surprise on her face now, a sudden onset of being caught off guard as she tucks the Culver’s Root into her satchel. He asks a question she was not prepared to answer, maybe she pauses too long now, maybe she looks away as she thinks on the answer, uncertain what something like that would even be- what shape it would take if it were to be put into words. “I’ve never been asked that before,” she offers, still searching for an appropriate title, something that would encompass Her.
“I would think-” she still is not convinced of her choosing, there are so many things that stick out in her mind, so many options and roads she might take, paths she might stray to along the way.
“I would call it, ‘The spaces we breathe’,..for those times that we exist without speech but still have so much going on, within.”
If there was any embarrassment about her choice, it did not show, she had contemplated in that short space, a proper name for such a novel. There was only her soft smile afterwards, the bright gold of her eyes that reflected the shine of the Winter sun, there was only the space of quiet when she finished; until there wasn’t.
“I’m so sorry, my name is Reckitt, and you?”
@mateo | "speaks" | notes: 624
