The fireflies flash along ahead of them, leading further and further away from the path. And Maret does not even look back.
She loses herself in the fireflies, in the thrill of the night. Her heart is beating like a fearless thing inside of her, beating in time with their hooves as her and Maeve take off after the light-horse. Leaves and branches snag at her mane, tearing flyaway strands from her carefully braided plaits, smearing her cheeks with dirt and grime, and she only laughs all the louder.
They twist around bushes and leap over fallen trees, racing faster and faster — Maret chasing the light-horse, Maeve chasing Maret. It feels endless, this race, this magic, this, this —
joy.
It fills her up like sunlight, warming all the frozen parts of her covered in diamond dust and ice. By the time they reach the meadow and the horse leading them slides to a stop, Maret does not feel like herself anymore. She feels lighter — braver — happier.
Her smile is splitting her face nearly in two.
She presses closer to Maeve as the ghost-horses press in around them. They’re beautiful, she thinks. If she had a pen and paper with her she would write about the ways the mist snakes off of their spines and legs, how their eyes look like moonlight given form, how they float with every step. How their voices seem at once like her own voice, and her fathers’, and every other voice blended together into one.
“I do,” she whispers back, pressing their shoulders together, ears circling forward to listen. “What are they saying?”
But she already knows. Even when the languages blend together, she can feel them tugging her forward all the same. Slowly she leaves Maeve’s side, one slow, hesitant step after the other, each one easier than the last. The mist-horses crowd in around her, so she has to look over their heads — practically through them — to see the younger girl. But as she looks around them, she sees a trend: nearly all of them are foals, some younger than Maeve, some barely older than herself. What harm were foals?
She flashes an encouraging smile at them. “Can’t you tell?” she asks. One of the mist-horses steps forward and whinnies, pawing at the ground with a silvery hoof. He tosses his head proudly in the air. “It’s a game!”
And when the next mist-foal prances forward, Maret joins her in her prance, black-and-white body flashing beside her silvery one.
a sunflower soul
with rock n roll eyes
curious thoughts
& a heart of surprise
i look over at you
and see sunshine
@maeve ! notes
"butter mellow"
