The Academy: Nicodemus ; Elemmirë ; and things weren't better in the olden days

Had Palestine been of a less accepting, less trusting nature–had she been older, stronger and embroidered by wizened, rock-rooted confidence she might have questioned, hesitated and condemned; this is what the numbers and intricate matrixes of genetics propose, after all, chromosomes are only avoidable to an extent.

Palestine is, however, no creature of great suspicion; her ugliness is pavonine and harsh, but she quivering with tenderness. A budding, intricately promising thing, childish and malleable; the earthen, moorish mare leans into his touch and welcomes it like a yielding flower. Still inadvertently dark and vicious, the half-mare huddles in the makeshift, dancing warmth of his flame, trusts completely and accepts his knowledge as a truth to dote on. His touch, fleeting and meaningless, shakes boldness and certainty into her bones, for a moment she forgets to hide and she forgets her shame.

There, at the bubbling creek and it’s whimsy, whispering volleys, she listens intently, quavers with surprise and pry as Nicodemus, bold and gallant, conjures fire where there should be none. He holds, though he does not know it, the sum of all her fears in his cupped hands–the ease in which he fondles the flame into his bidding is something she cannot possibly understand. Young, hideously rough Palestine owns the promise of power, but does not understand it, she cannot find the means to harness the strength of her first element: the young, newfangled wolf trembles as the ground she is meant to command. “How,” her voice, gaunt and haggard, carries itself in a shy whisper, “how did you learn to control it?”

Wines of shadowy, sylvan green appear, serpentine and slow they slither up against the stark white of her legs. Wary, hesitant Palestine shies and it is evident that this happens without her bidding; she retreats from her newfound certainty and lowers her gaze to the puddles of envy-green by her hooves. “I don’t know what there is to tell,” she does not dare to look at him, “I am of the forest, crafted amongst the sullen trees that separate the Wolves from the Jaegers.” She pauses and contemplates this concept that she has only recently begun to understand, it is an odd thing, she thinks, that they should live separated rather than together. “I don’t understand much of your ways,” the confession slips from her easily, but she still does not meet his gaze, “but I don’t think your kind understands me either.” She sighs.

Then, vaguely familiar a voice touches her name and Palestine looks up. It is a mother she barely knows, a shadow belonging to the first hours of sunlight, a ghost clinging to a mare much younger than the still young half-mare. She takes another step back, longs for her beloved shadows and begs that they should conceal her, keep her from fire-stallions and vicious, disturbed earth-mothers. As she withdraws and recoils in to quiet–still observing but nevertheless with terror and hesitancy purring in her arctic eyes–the earth trembles underfoot. “No,” the answer is soft, inaudible and full of contained shame, “I don’t understand,” she begins but in the demanding presence of her mother, she finds it best not to speak any further.

PALESTINE
WOLF
SCHOLAR
EARTH III