i'm laying down, eating snow. my fur is hot, my tongue is cold.The sound of Mikhail's name upon her lips is nearly divine. The painted stallion would be happy to hear her say it time and time again. The thought is gone from his mind before he can make any proper sense of it. Then, she is reaching for him, and her skin is against his, the feel of her skin against his own sensitive flesh sending shivers down his spine. A lack of company means a lack of physical touch, and he had nearly forgotten what it felt like to have another so near.
She speaks of this, as if reading his mind, and he knows how she feels. He, too, has been consumed by loneliness, eaten inside out by an emptiness that does nothing but grow with each passing day. Yet, with Larka's presence by his side, he could almost feel the darkness ebbing away. Perhaps there was hope for him yet, he mused silently. He asks her about where she is from, one ear tilted intently towards his companion, eager to hear her sweet and gentle voice again. It is like a gift when she does speak, and he is so lost in thought, he barely registers the fact that she has turned his own question on him.
"Yes, I was born in the Lagoon - it is home to a band of rogue stallions who prefer their solitude over owning a land." He figures that explanation will do just fine. He doesn't want to expose such an alluring creature to the atrocities of the Lagoon. No, it would feel too much like tainting her. He couldn't even bear to think of the mud and muck marring her flawless ivory coat. It just wasn't right.
He reflects on her words for a moment, the stallion's name tumbling about in his cobweb-addled mind. He had heard it at some point, surely, falling from some obscure passerby's lips. He had never been to the Forest before - hell, he had never stepped hoof on Luthien. Perhaps, before he had lost his only mate and his only child, he would have liked to go there. Now, he could not find the strength in his weary body to even walk the entirety of the Meadow.
He settles his gaze on her face, his milky eye obscuring half of his vision in darkness. When he spoke, his tone was gentler, less rough than before, but still held a pleasing baritone pitch. "What was it like, on the Prairie?" He finds himself wishing to know more about her, about the time she's spent on these Islands. Perhaps, if he tries hard enough, he can paint himself a picture from the palette of her words.
on a bed of spiderweb, i think of how to change myself.
the blind bay tobiano son of felony and zhenya. |