The Disciple ♌ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
disciplewhomsignlessloves) wrote2016-09-13 12:41 am
disciplewhomsignlessloves) wrote2016-09-13 12:41 am
Entry tags:
I feel so much better
Your teacher says you should probably try seasons.
So for a while you do. You read up on the savanna and you decide it would be weird not to do the seasons those biomes have. You had read about the wide grasslands speckled with trees and you had chosen that for your own, but now you can wonder about them, can ask questions, can decide if the world works the way they say it should or make it all your own. You deign to try it by the book at first and make it rain for months. It doesn't fall everyday, but it falls in sheets when it does, pouring down off the rocks and swelling the river. Homes go up on little stilts and you decorate those too, with drawings so much more detailed than those that curl around the oldest homes. You decide that the rain falls in snow on the mountain tops, making patches that only linger for a day or two before they melt away. You decide everything.
You're delighted. You dance in the rain and don't even care that you're drenched pointed ear to furred foot. You scamper up the mountain, not using the stairs you provided for your flock, but your own hands and claws. You hold your hands out and feel the snow, feel it land on your lips, your nose, your ears.
They don't clamber up to join you, soaked to the bone, not all of them. Some join you, shaking off the water like dogs and laughing with you. The rest endure it but eventually tire after the third month. They ask for umbrellas and slick coats that the water sheets off of, they ask for less rain. You stubbornly stick to the book's pattern before gently, slowly, they persuade you. The rains don't linger as often. They still come, a wet and dry season in turn, but they don't come down in sheets.
You grumble a little about it still but one of them kisses your forehead next time you come to see them, sets a wreath of your favorite flowers on your head. The pink ones that cling to your mountainsides here and there, the little bell shaped ones, the spiky blues and purples, the five petaled ones so pale a pink that you've wonder if they're really pink at all or just look it next to the bright green of their leaves and stems.
You know how difficult it is to get to these. You know how long it must have took. You drink in their love, their belief, their effort, like water. It soothes all those stubborn parts. Next time you'll ask. They have tried so hard and so you must try in turn.
--
Your claws curl in his mane and you pull, not to be rude--though you laugh at his little hiss and curse--but so you can get purchase with your short legs, so you can make your way up. He grumbles, but it's that affectionate sort of grumble. You've known him for years and years now and you can tell the difference. One of your first, your very first, and so you know everything about him.
His shoulders are perfect to perch on and you can drape yourself over his head, settle between his horns, avoid the fascinating ears that try to be fins but didn't quite make it. You settle there and braid his hair, little bits and pieces, and he doesn't even ask what you want anymore.
You don't volunteer it either, because what is there to say besides that you missed his company. You're fond of so many of them, all of them really, but sometimes you wonder if you're more fond of some, less of others. That seems unfair, but you're not the goddess of fairness.
You make them work for things, you give generously when they've tried, when they've made efforts and you cherish the things that take such effort. A painting done in such detail, a wreath of mountain flowers that grow in hard to reach crevices, a bottle of honey from a bee hive clear across the savanna.
He gives you plenty of things but you sometimes love his company the most. He believes in you without ceremony, without worship and the pretty words your parents think you deserve. He paints for you and he speaks in that lilting riddle, the one you've come to understand, the one you've puzzled through until you understand him as perfectly as the plain speech of others. He cares about you like you're just like him, like together you are the same, you a goddess and he a mere mortal, though one who will live long enough to see more of your life than any other. You curl your fingers in his mane, his mass of hair and rub your cheek against his horn.
You don't like to think about death, don't want it, because it brings an end to things. Maybe your people could live forever, if you really tried. He'd do it regardless. Not forever, maybe, but long enough to be like forever.
His hand comes up, scratches behind your ear. You curls into his perfectly sharp nails, a purr working its way up your throat, already vibrating your chest. He isn't always sweet. There's fire in his veins, a cool purple fire, and you've disagreed plenty of times. Yet, in the end, he knows where to scratch behind your ears and how to pet your tail--slowly, no grabbing, and only with permission. He lets you relax when you spend all your time being stubborn, caring so much, trying so hard. He gives you some kind of peace.
So for a while you do. You read up on the savanna and you decide it would be weird not to do the seasons those biomes have. You had read about the wide grasslands speckled with trees and you had chosen that for your own, but now you can wonder about them, can ask questions, can decide if the world works the way they say it should or make it all your own. You deign to try it by the book at first and make it rain for months. It doesn't fall everyday, but it falls in sheets when it does, pouring down off the rocks and swelling the river. Homes go up on little stilts and you decorate those too, with drawings so much more detailed than those that curl around the oldest homes. You decide that the rain falls in snow on the mountain tops, making patches that only linger for a day or two before they melt away. You decide everything.
You're delighted. You dance in the rain and don't even care that you're drenched pointed ear to furred foot. You scamper up the mountain, not using the stairs you provided for your flock, but your own hands and claws. You hold your hands out and feel the snow, feel it land on your lips, your nose, your ears.
They don't clamber up to join you, soaked to the bone, not all of them. Some join you, shaking off the water like dogs and laughing with you. The rest endure it but eventually tire after the third month. They ask for umbrellas and slick coats that the water sheets off of, they ask for less rain. You stubbornly stick to the book's pattern before gently, slowly, they persuade you. The rains don't linger as often. They still come, a wet and dry season in turn, but they don't come down in sheets.
You grumble a little about it still but one of them kisses your forehead next time you come to see them, sets a wreath of your favorite flowers on your head. The pink ones that cling to your mountainsides here and there, the little bell shaped ones, the spiky blues and purples, the five petaled ones so pale a pink that you've wonder if they're really pink at all or just look it next to the bright green of their leaves and stems.
You know how difficult it is to get to these. You know how long it must have took. You drink in their love, their belief, their effort, like water. It soothes all those stubborn parts. Next time you'll ask. They have tried so hard and so you must try in turn.
--
Your claws curl in his mane and you pull, not to be rude--though you laugh at his little hiss and curse--but so you can get purchase with your short legs, so you can make your way up. He grumbles, but it's that affectionate sort of grumble. You've known him for years and years now and you can tell the difference. One of your first, your very first, and so you know everything about him.
His shoulders are perfect to perch on and you can drape yourself over his head, settle between his horns, avoid the fascinating ears that try to be fins but didn't quite make it. You settle there and braid his hair, little bits and pieces, and he doesn't even ask what you want anymore.
You don't volunteer it either, because what is there to say besides that you missed his company. You're fond of so many of them, all of them really, but sometimes you wonder if you're more fond of some, less of others. That seems unfair, but you're not the goddess of fairness.
You make them work for things, you give generously when they've tried, when they've made efforts and you cherish the things that take such effort. A painting done in such detail, a wreath of mountain flowers that grow in hard to reach crevices, a bottle of honey from a bee hive clear across the savanna.
He gives you plenty of things but you sometimes love his company the most. He believes in you without ceremony, without worship and the pretty words your parents think you deserve. He paints for you and he speaks in that lilting riddle, the one you've come to understand, the one you've puzzled through until you understand him as perfectly as the plain speech of others. He cares about you like you're just like him, like together you are the same, you a goddess and he a mere mortal, though one who will live long enough to see more of your life than any other. You curl your fingers in his mane, his mass of hair and rub your cheek against his horn.
You don't like to think about death, don't want it, because it brings an end to things. Maybe your people could live forever, if you really tried. He'd do it regardless. Not forever, maybe, but long enough to be like forever.
His hand comes up, scratches behind your ear. You curls into his perfectly sharp nails, a purr working its way up your throat, already vibrating your chest. He isn't always sweet. There's fire in his veins, a cool purple fire, and you've disagreed plenty of times. Yet, in the end, he knows where to scratch behind your ears and how to pet your tail--slowly, no grabbing, and only with permission. He lets you relax when you spend all your time being stubborn, caring so much, trying so hard. He gives you some kind of peace.