crash through the surface where they can't hurt us
T
here is peace here, even as Winter enfolds the land with its chill, leaving frost upon blades of grass, an encrusted platform where her pale hooves crunch. With each limping step, she is drawn further and further into the heart of Illuster Meadow, progressing over each gradual rise and fall of the land; then she stops. Kitt finds herself soaking in the simple beauty of this day, watching the Sun make its slow climb. With a deep breath, she inhales the cold scent of the meadow, then breathes out that solid intake, hoping to send with it her worries of the day, the thoughts that brought her distress, doubt. Always some here lately, things she could not help but hold on to, things that clung against her conscience. Progress with this adaptation seemed slow, it was much to take in, much to learn, to be born from one species to the next; it was so far her greatest challenge.
Even the simplest of task had been a learning curve, eating, drinking, what one might have given to watch her attempt to lap water from a creek. Nothing is the same.
From above, a flock of birds takes her attention, those that did not migrate to warmer climates for the season; creatures she could admire for that. Even though things were tough, not as easy, they stuck it out- she wanted to be like them. I should try harder, she thought to herself as they paraded over her. Rouge had been a welcome friend, even if she was not the best at conveying it, even if he did not realize how thankful she was for him to find her that day. Along the river, lost in her own pain and confusion, but most of all, just simply lost. If the russet male had not approached her so, Gods know what might have befallen her, in light of everything, she was still working on finding her hope. The amount she once held, unphased and unburden by the chaos around her. It could be that today, was that day, but let us not get ahead of ourselves.
Though the grass was drying, yellowed and brittle, it was still what she needed to fill her belly. Lowering her bleached head to snag several clutches of nourishment, some sticking out of her pale mouth as she chewed in slow, deliberate bites. Even now she couldn’t quite wrap her head around that fact that it tasted good, that plant matter was filling and wholesome and divine. A sigh of satisfaction takes her, amber eyes looking over the clearing, abandoned of the bright flowers that once grew, but not abandoned of bodies. The colored forms of her Kingdom mates could be seen in the distance, moving with intent, or congregating in small groups. The intent of the day was to gather supplies, plants that could be useful, why does she feel like she’s frozen then?
Several times she though to approach them, introduce herself with a smile, give her name as cheerfully as she had back home. Such bravery and confidence was hard to follow through with, so she remains still, an onlooker.
Mateo did not much like walking. He preferred to run, or fly, or curl up in the library like a cat and hardly move at all except, of course, to breathe. But one could not feasibly forage from the sky.
So he kept himself landlocked, tagging along with the foraging group in search of... was it feathergrass? Or culver's root? Despite his best intentions, it was hard for him to focus on plants. There were so many subtleties that he just didn't care enough about, and it was difficult to discern feathergrass from eulalia grass when they were both so terribly boring.
So naturally, the birds steal his attention too. There are subtle insinuations in the motion of their wings, messages in a language that he is learning, always learning. He watches those dark wings beat against the crisp winter air, each flap striking a different note in his head. A song takes form: sweet, symmetrical, and repetitive. He does not have words for it yet; he might not ever have words for it, which saddens and frustrates him. He has not yet learned that sometimes the greatest of songs do not have lyrics-- that sometimes they do not even have sounds.
His feet wander in time to the song in his head, away from the group in a swaying, dancelike walk like someone who's had a little too much wine. He's looking intently at the ground now but his mind is still far above them, up where dark wings flap and a song continues to unfurl. From the corner of his eye, a stillness catches his attention just as much as a sudden motion would. He lifts his head and finds himself looking into amber eyes, each with three blue dots beneath like windows to the bright sky his mind soars through.
She is short, almost as short as him, and surely if they've met before he would have remembered it. He extends a wing in greeting, waving cheerfully before tucking the appendage neatly back to his side. "Hey there!" His voice is clear and golden on the cold, still air. "What's on your mind?" He thinks he is being entirely polite and not at all intrusive.
crash through the surface 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.
Oh, Mateo never for a moment in his life felt out of place. Maybe that was unusual for a fatherless child- he wouldn't know, as he didn't know any other fatherless children. All he knows is that nobody had ever been less than kind and welcoming to him, even the quiet sort that might find his talkativeness tiresome (all the world was sound and he couldn't help but be apart of that always, be it through song or speech) or the elders who might-- who by all logic should-- have better things to do than entertain his boundless energy.
But he had grown up charmed, gifted with a supportive extended family and in a time of peace, and he would never know anything otherwise. (Sometimes he craved something... Something more, something that sent a shiver right through the tips of his feathers. Something that scared him, so he kept it bottled up-- a secret.) If he could read the white mare's mind, her insecurities would be as foreign to him as pain-- a feeling he understood, as it was defined, and thought he knew how it felt, but had never truly experienced for himself. (Even flying had come easy to him. Flying!)
He wants to ask her more about her thoughts, and he wants to tell her she has a poet's tongue, or maybe a philosopher's, and there are so many other things he wants to say but before he can, she quickly changes the subject.
Culver's root. Culver's root. He knows he's seen it before, in the quick briefing they had before leaving the capital. He remembers wondering who Culver was, and what one must do to have a root, of all things, named after you, and when his attention returned to the lecture the topic had already moved on to Morro's whip, a seasonal grass... and naturally that name had sent his imagination flying even further. So, Culver's root. "Umm... Yeah, we're acquainted. This one,right?" He reaches for a plant with serrated leaves not unlike Culver's root, but not arranged in the characteristic whorling pattern, and bumps it with his nose. Two weeks ago he would have unceremoniously grabbed and tugged it out of the earth, but between then and now he had a strangely unnerving conversation with the prince about whether plants could feel or not. He had cut the topic of conversation short before it got too deep (it had been such a beautiful morning, wasted on philosophy) but it stuck with him anyway, and he had begun to treat plants much more respectfully, almost fearfully.
Abruptly, Mateo asks "what would you call it?" He simply could not keep his attention on plants, and so he changes topics back to the first without blinking an eye. "A book that's full of your thoughts, I mean." He has a few ideas- bold of him, knowing nothing of the stranger- but he does not want to taint her response with his own, so he keeps his mouth shut. It is an uncomfortable feeling, for a man so used to saying the first thing that comes to mind, and he fidgets uncomfortably as though wrestling words unspoken. When he smiles suddenly, it is boyish, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, and it is reassuring, and it is sweet as only the terribly optimistic or terribly naive can be. He happens to be both.
crash through the surface 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.
Just as Mateo is about to pull the not-culver's-root from the ground, the white mare politely directs his attention to a different but similar plant. "Ah," he says, not at all embarrassed by his ignorance, and within a few feet he finds another. He plucks the culver's root and places it in the satchel he had borrowed for this purpose. Later he'll drop his haul off at the apothecary, for he has no idea how to dry or cure or cut or... whatever else needs to be done to the plant. "Thank you," he says as he takes a few steps further to look for more of the plant.
He does not question her unintelligible whisperings every time she plucks a plant from the ground, but he does strain terribly to hear what it is she is saying. It has the air of a prayer, which he finds intriguing-- religion colored every aspect of his life, much to the surprise of those who did not know him well. That air of a prayer is precisely what keeps him respectfully quiet when he would otherwise ask her what she was saying.
Some things should stay between a person and their god.
"What's this do again? Settle the stomach or something?" Mateo plucks another culver's root, shakes the excess dirt off, and stores it with the other. He looks at the mare from the corner of his eye. She is almost as short as him but otherwise his opposite- pale, long of mane and tail, wingless, and accented by brilliant blue geometric markings beneath the eyes. She seems the quiet, thoughtful sort that tires quickly of his typically short attention span. He has a decent read on people (for the most part) and is good at adjusting himself to accommodate them (for the most part) and so without even realizing it he takes the mare's calm demeanor, and lets it settle on his shoulders.
Mateo could be quiet.
Mateo could be thoughtful.
Mateo could be patient-- and he is, as he waits for her to answer. It was not a simple question so he understood the long pause, and he had foraging to keep him occupied while the mare thought. When she does speak he stops what he's doing to listen. Unlike most talkers he was an excellent listener-- almost to the extent that made some uncomfortable. He leans in toward his companion, ears pinned forward, hardly breathing so that he might hear better.
"The spaces we breathe..." He repeats in a musical, buoyant voice. "That's beautiful," he says decisively, as though it were a fact and not an opinion. He feels god there, in the lush beauty of the space they breathe. He pictures a bright light filling his lungs, and when he exhales he watches the steam rise from his nostrils and fade into the calm blue sky.
"I'm Mateo, pleased to meet you Reckitt." He bows his head down in greeting. "You're new here, right?" His eyes linger on the three blue dots beneath her right eye. He would have certainly recognized her, if he had seen her around sooner.
crash through the surface where they can't hurt us
S
o easily had her manners gone forgotten, slipped away from her as she stood there perplexed with naming her own thoughts, a slight blush rises to her cheeks; staining them with a muted flush. Kitt turns her head away, the curtain of her mane helping to alleviate her own embarrassment from what she would consider, a transgression. This world had her all mixed up- she wasn’t herself. The shame of almost forgetting an introduction was minor to most, and to be truthful, it was mild in comparison to the way she stumbled over her own hooves, she sighs, thankful this day was not one of those days.
Everything goes still as their gathering continues, Kitt lost in thought, Mateo almost unnervingly quiet. Could she tell him the words she speaks, the chants she tells the roots as she carries on with her task, releasing each plant from the Earth, would she?
Perhaps one day she would, but today is not that day, Kitt did not know him well, nor he her.
“This plant?” Repeating Mateo’s question, busying herself with her own sort of listening, almost as though the rush of cool wind through the length of wildflowers, made it possible for them to have things to tell her themselves. “This can help with liver disorders, can,” she makes sure to put emphasis on that word. “It must be prepared correctly, carefully, or else well, you may as well be poisoning your patient.” There was a finality in the last words that left her diamond lips, a seriousness in her tone as she spoke them.
The pale mare prepared all of her mixtures with much the same care as a Mother would a meal, imbuing her salves with love. Careful, ready hands, she knew no different.
“Don’t worry though, I promise to be very careful,” as if he might need convincing, she might not seem like the most steady of creatures if he’s seen her around, stumbling or tripping over herself, but there’s a certain composure that overcomes her when her talents are exercised. A calmness, she’s in her element, doing what she loves.
Mateo he is called, she nods, dipping her ashen head in greeting, saving his namesake for later. It made her wish she knew more of them, the people here, the Kingdom; it was her home now wasn’t it? They were her family now, Rouge and Mateo, she wished to build on that.
“I am new,” a nod of affirmation, “I like your wings, Mateo.” A smile creeps up her lips, alabaster velvet, she portrays sincerity in her smirk, a joyousness. “Are you also a caretaker here?, I mean- Medic, that’s what we’re called here, isn’t it?” What we are called here, a small hint that not only is she new to Dawn Court, but she is new to Novus itself.
It does not matter to him whether a name is shared at the start or end of meeting someone, and so it does not strike him as impolite to have conversed for as long as they did without knowing that he is Mateo and she is Reckitt. They would exchange that pleasantry eventually, and in the mean time he would know her by the lines of her face and the three blue dots beneath each eye and the way her lips moved quietly before picking each plant. He had an incredible memory, especially when it came to individuals and the details that made them unique-- details far more striking than a name.
Although, he had never met someone with a name like Reckitt.
He looks skeptically at the plant he just plucked, hovering in the air before him. "Liver disorders?" It seems like an incredibly specific use, and he wonders who figured that out and how long ago. And how many people were accidentally poisoned in the process. The healers always seemed, to his inexperienced eye, to just grind things together, mix them with water or something, and call it medicine. He had not realized how much care and deliberation went into their craft. "Is it common for a plant to be used to heal and also hurt?" He watches her curiously. Despite her incredible lack of coordination, the mare has an air of calm knowing, like he could ask any question and she would simply pause, dig around in her mind for the answer, and deliver it to him with a quiet, magnetic grace.
She would find that he has many, many questions.
When she compliments his wings he flushes with pride. "Oh?" He flares them and turns his neck to look, as though they may have changed since the last time he saw them. They're still big and sleek and a deep, deep shade of black that sucks up the sunlight. "Thank you," he tucks them once again at his sides. His grin is so large it might just fall off his face. The boy was far more used to giving compliments than receiving them.
"Me? A medic?!" He laughs at the thought. He could not stand blood, did not much like getting his hands dirty, and would just as soon poison someone than cure their liver disorder. "Gods no," he continues, once his laughter has passed, "I try to help out once in a while though. I'm a scholar." He says this proudly, for it was a well respected role in Deluminian society. This was not so in most of Novus, or (he assumed, and read) in the rest of the world. "And yes, the proper term is medic," he laughs again. Gently this time, not intending to offend. "You're not from Novus, are you?" His voice curls at the end in excitement but out of politeness he doesn't push her for details. The pegasus had scarcely left the borders of Delumine. Most of what he knew of the world was second-hand, and the thinks that he's okay with that. He has too many questions to possibly answer them all himself.
"I'm glad you're here, and not one of the other courts," he says eventually, with a small, coy smile.
