i'm laying down, eating snow. my fur is hot, my tongue is cold.The last thing he expects is company. So when he hears the snap of twigs and the crisp crackle of leaves beneath hooves getting closer, he is genuinely surprised. Others have never been particularly fond of him; he never really cared to know why, often assuming it was due to his upbringing - or perhaps it was by the pity of others that he remained alone all these years. Pity, because they knew what the usual fate was for horses like him, and figured it was kinder to let him be alone than to form bonds with another. After all, foals born with unseeing eyes rarely survived here past their first year or two. It was a miracle, really, he had made it this long with little help.
He can hear her getting closer, closer, until the rustling of leaves stops, and for a brief moment, there is stillness. Then, a soft voice greets him, and suddenly he feels unsure of himself. Turning his head, he fixes her with his good eye; or rather, the one that can make out her color and figure. "Hello," he replies simply, casually considering her small frame. She is the same murky shade of brown that he is, contrasted sharply by pristine white that engulfs her upper body and legs. From what he can see, she is a beautiful creature. Nostrils flaring, he takes a deep breath, her heady scent overwhelming his senses, something instinctual stirring in his belly. Underneath the sweetness there is a sharp, slightly metallic scent. He wants to step closer, to press his nose to the soft flesh of her neck and drink in this foreign smell, but he stays rooted to the spot, unwilling to give in to such a desire.
"You're not from around here," he speaks again, unsure of what else to say. In the six years of his life, he could count in single digits the number of times he'd spoken to a mare. Life in the lagoon had barely taught him how to interact with those of the opposite gender. Many of the men there chose to take the affections of mares by force, rather than dedicate their time to courtship. It often bewildered him that some of these mares chose the life of a trinket, apparently content to live as nothing more than playthings, there to satisfy the whims of horny stallions. Had his mother been any better, any different? Perhaps not. It's not even worth thinking about at this point, he reminds himself, focusing his murky gaze on Evren's face.
on a bed of spiderweb, i think of how to change myself.
the blind bay tobiano son of felony and zhenya. |