Had gravity always been so strong? Had the weight of sunlight and air upon her thin shoulders always pulled her so steadily toward the earth? Llewelyn felt the constant press of it tugging along her bones, a gentle and insistent plucking at each muscle and joint. Oh, how the maiden wished to cast it off, to toss her horned head and fling that wretched burden from body and soul. How had she suffered such a ponderousness for so long without noticing? How had she simply tolerated it’s presence?
The courtier’s ebon brow crinkled and relaxed in the same breath, a realization dawning that she was not being yanked down, but rather toward. A peculiar certainty unfurled over Llewelyn’s strained spirit and kneaded it into a kind of welcome submission; banishing her questions in the face of Mateo - strong and sure and home. So quickly had gravity shifted, the center of her universe wrenching unceremoniously to the impish pegasus who was lipping at her shoulder and holding her tightly enough to bruise.
If only he knew just how tightly she would hold him if her wasted form would let her - hard enough to shatter, hard enough to never again feel the chill of his absence. Yet, she was confined to the limitations given by the company of graves and dust, and was resigned to only the softest of touches. In a way she supposed it was only proper, for she to play the part of a frail damsel swooning in the arms of her honorable savior. But — as Mateo would well know — Llewelyn had never been one to settle for much of anything that inconvenienced her, and the mare suddenly found she was mightily inconvenienced.
A tiny, wordless sound of immense displeasure leaked from between the femme’s lips as she adjusted her stance just enough to bury her nose in the fragrant mass of Mateo’s shoulder feathers.*
So many transgressions and trespasses were occurring, and Llewelyn could hear the cynical whispers of her gemstones stirring beneath the watchful sun. Yet, regardless of her upbringing, of the clear rules that had been set by so many before her, the mare found that she couldn’t quite care at the moment. Some time later, once her old chambers had been aired out and fresh tea had been poured, perhaps she would feel guilty for her breach in decorum. Maybe she would hang her head in shame within the privacy of her bathing chamber and swear a renewed oath of careful - gods, so careful - chastity.
But as the scholar let her eyelids float shut and allowed herself space enough to feel safe, she wondered if decorum and stately image would ever hold the same sense of security.
The mare had thought her memory of him had been accurate, that years of togetherness and secrets had allowed her mind to craft Mateo’s image with lifelike accuracy; the picture of his laughing face had kept her warm through the desperation of her self-imposed exile, after all. Yet, as loath as she was to admit any mistake, Llewelyn realized that in comparison to the flesh-and-blood stallion, her own remembrance was a poor and pale imitation.
She found herself laughing along with him, the sensation soft as dove’s down, as he spoke of manners and his lack thereof. Llewelyn supposed, in some distant corner of her mind, that she could die like this and not regret it - to die happily was all one truly wished for, wasn’t it? To avoid all the fear and pain that comes from an average mortal death, and to find pleasant release in the Great Severing from life and limb. The maiden laughed again, though it was more of a huff than a true chuckle as she rolled her eyes in amusement.
A beat of silence followed as the femme considered how to respond - just how would she summarize the fear and the wretchedness that has encompassed her great, useless exile?
“I’ve missed you more than I knew I could, Mateo,” Oh, how soft and true those words fell, “And I have seen much better days...” Another breath of consideration and another few pulses of quiet broken only by birdsong, “Tell me what you have been doing - what I’ve missed - while you escort me home?”
She would leave it up to him to pull away, to start down the daunting path that lead down from the holy mountain and into the basin that housed their nation. In truth, she felt no pull, no sensation of belonging to the distant earth below; but wherever he went, she knew she would follow.
*Luckily, this action quelled the demanding mare, resulting in a contented sigh.
Sooo choppyyyy and I’m sorry for the wait my love<3
@Mateo
