Posted by To Noah on August 27, 2005, 11:44 am, in reply to "Imitation." Lyrian was the first to see him; he had been awake now, in a rare burst of energy that already began to dissipate – and still, he felt alive, burning with life in his veins. He stood in the shade, pale-white, worm-white, much like a ghost or something else; deep in thought, he observed the horses pass by without much attention or interest – at least, not until Noah crossed their path, young and untainted. Faolán, the youngest, had resorted to lie in the sun: she lied upon her back, lazy and loving, tiny feet and a brownish stomach to the air. Thus she basked, lazed away the moments of peace in their otherwise rough life. “Lyrian,” she said, elated, plucking grasses with her lips, blowing them up and aside. “I like it here.” But Lyrian did not hear his sister. He was distracted, following a shade of gold that skipped through the throngs of horses. They had been forced to grow, to grow flesh and blood earlier than most, to resist and to fight for their own sake. Thus, there had been born two very old babies – and Lyrian, the eldest, was also the worse affected by such. He stared, sighed and dreamed in his own mind, until she repeated: “Lyrian?” in such pressing surge that he was forced to awake. Then he was there, close enough to be felt and seen – and Faolán, by far the more sociable of both, spun back upon bent knees and smiled, still drunk with the novelty of this land and of her brother’s recovery. “Hi,” she said, her voice sweet and foreign, “I’m Faolán. He is Lyrian. where did you come from?”
set me free
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