Posted on August 12, 2012 at 04:07:39 AM by f l e e t e
here the world is quiet
Though the brilliant flames of autumn still raze the plumage that the trees surrounding them have not yet begun to shed, there is the barest hint of winter's glacial cold in the air as Bondurant's voice again breaks the coveted silence. Drawing a shaky breath, Fleete seeks to dispel this inexplicable chill that has consumed her, numbing her extremities and compressing the air within her lungs until she is certain that she will suffocate on the unspoken words taking residence on the very tip of her tongue. Only by keeping her lips pressed firmly together does the fawn-hued mare manage to maintain the silence throughout the spotted demon's farce of a welcome, though it is clear in her nonverbal cues that she hears him well enough. Her ears twitch irritably, as if to shoo a particularly irksome fly, and her tail lashes through the air in an agitated dance. It is his warning that disrupts the precarious balance of her emotions. "I may have been mistaken once, but that does not mean that I cannot recognize danger when it is near." She spits, reeling backward in the moment of shock that follows these venomous words. Fleete had not known that such darkness was housed within her very breast, and feels contrasting emotions again as she is consumed by a surge that is part victory, part dismay. The urge to flee builds within her, but it is met by a force of an equally compelling nature - to surge forward, to close the distance between her dainty apricot form and his burly speckled body and to pay him in kind, physically, for the emotional wounds which had been opened this day. Held rigid by these opposing desires, she can do nothing but clench her jaw as she glares defiantly across the small distance that separates them, hating everything about him in that moment, from the way his bangs obscured her view of his eyes, to the abnormal twang that altered his whispered words. It is reflex to answer, though she would have preferred the silence to the quavering note that has crept back into her soft voice. "Fleete." Then, seeking to imbibe some of the vindictive strength back into her tone. "Or perhaps it would be more fitting if you simply called me 'whoreslave'." Both her courage and her composure, however, have fled, and no sooner does the word leave her lips than she sinks to the ground with a sound that is neither a whimper nor a scream, but both. And there, strewn across the leafy loam, she surrenders herself to wretchedness and despair at last, grieving for the loss of her virtue - and her freedom. mare .. 4 years .. rabicano chestnut pearl .. akhal-teke x andalusian .. 16 hands fleete |
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