Golden Plains

The daughter wasn’t always so cruel. Once, she had been full of sweetness; she’d been the girl with stars in her eyes, the one with the bubbling laugh. She was once a kind child, a sweet, pretty filly. Once, she had been full of joy, of love and laughter. Once, she had been like her mother.

The daughter had no memories of her mother’s sweet embraces or warm touches. Never, she believes, has the mother ever held her with love in her eyes. The mother knows of the sweet coos and affectionate gestures, how she’d gotten them in return back when the daughter had held love in her heart oh so long ago.

The mother has always been broken, mai believes. Never has there been a time when she hasn’t had to watch over the older mare, to protect her from the world. It is her duty, the daughter believes, to keep the broken mother from harm, to shelter her from anything that would hurt or frighten her.

When he beckons them, the daughter follows, her mother pressing herself close to mai’s dark brown side and keeping step with her. Her mother’s tight trailing annoys the daughter, and she tilts her ears back, once or twice snapping at the mother, to no avail. The mother walks with her head low to the ground, but the daughter’s head is high, eyes following the stallion. When she speaks, her voice is low, with a hint of remorse. “Evander, I’m sorry I was so angry in the field.” She give no excuse or explanation, but her apology is heartfelt, truly.

Slowly, the land changes from field’s wide spaces to a meadow of gold kissed flora—what could only be described as gold country. As they walk twilight descends around them, the shadows growing and darkening until night has almost settled. Suddenly, the mother freezes, staring at the stallion with fear-widened eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. The daughter too stops, calling back to the older mare in a weary nicker. But the mother doesn’t seem to hear her daughter, and with a sigh the young mare turns from her, looking to Evander instead, saying simply, in a voice filled with frustration, “Sorry, she gets impossible sometimes.”

Mai’s eyes take in the darkness covered lands, the feeble shadows of a smile on her face. “Well, you certainly did pick a beautiful home.” Her voice, again is soft, with none of the harshness or anger that it had carried in the field, and her fiery eyes are dark, almost sad, looking from him to the old mare and back. “Do you regret picking me—no, her—I mean us?”

emmie & mai