12-31-2008, 06:01 PM
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500+ Cwmfen watched quietly as Firefly played with her tail fur. She nodded silently to the other female’s remark. Indeed, she would be dreaming of those distant shores until the day she died. But it was not as if her life would be less—these lands held something different for her. Here she would grow and die, but life would flourish around her, and she would flourish with it before her time came. The white orbs occupied themselves with a stray leaf upon the ground, considering the dead flora as if it held some secret value. “I’d rather live once a mortal than live a thousand lives fleeing death,” the black female remarked quietly. The melodic, silver tones held a strange minor key, dissonant with the rest of the world about her. Reaching out, she crushed the leaf, enjoying that soft crunching sound and the sweet scent it released. Her higher-ranking pack mate seemed to find her remark concerning the hybrid DaVinci amusing. The woad-marked female wondered at the other’s regular smirk, wondered why such an expression was even necessary in such a context. The golden female claimed that she did not believe that the coy-wolf had found contentment. The black female sighed quietly, though whether it was from exasperation or mere discontentment was difficult to discern. The white orbs lifted from her hand that had destroyed the leaf and rested upon the other. It seemed that the other female was discontent with her own life, yet not for the same reasons (Firefly was not, after all, a hybrid as DaVinci was). The woad-banded aurals lifted forward as if trying to discern the reason for such discontent. Finding nothing, she simply said, “Each of us creates our own reality. His unhappiness is his own creation.” She paused, considering the other. “We always have a choice.” Then Firefly chuckled speaking again. The black female considered her words thoughtfully before responding. “Perhaps he has already found his place. Perhaps he’s waiting for his self to accept it.” She thought back to their meeting. They had spoken of waiting, of searching, and he at the time had desired to feel love for another—or, more likely, for another to love him. She had stated that he had perhaps already found her, and that he simply needed to stop searching and to look. She still believed that this was so. Those who let their own characteristics get in the way always seemed to be blind to such things. The black fae wished that she could go and help them see, but such a task was easier said than done. Firefly’s smug smile did not bother her. Instead, she found intellectual entertainment in her words. She liked to brood over such things and often did so while she was alone—which was most of the time. Cwmfen wondered if Firefly enjoyed such mind games, and continued this game with the addition of her own thoughts. “Are we doomed to make it? Or are we privileged to make it?” Once again, it seemed a matter of perception, of choice. The black fae was sincerely thoughtful as her white orbs turned towards the heavens. Such questions never had an answer. Such Truth was never obtainable. But she always attempted to get as close to Truth as she could. “Whatever the fate of it may be, we are still ‘making it’, as we have put. Does that not imply that we are now the artists of this world?” If they were artists then who was the world’s Michelangelo?  |