The dream had been no dream at all, but a vision. A vision cleaved in two; showing him his future as it would come to pass, and in a faraway place, a stranger in a strange land, beckoning him: ‘Choose.’
——
The figure before him remained still and silent, and fighting through his exhaustion, the gold stallion felt the breath leave his lungs in a rush - the smallest of offerings, one that held traces of both death and life. “Please,” he begged again, the word little more than a desperate rasp. “I know you.” and the stranger’s mouth opened to speak…
‘Oof!’
A sudden pressure against his dark-spotted hip had the young stallion bucking in alarm, but upon whipping his ashen muzzle around and seeing a startled young mare, he quickly tamped down his fear, though his heart continued to beat like a drum in his chest. Sucking in a ragged breath, he eyed her a moment longer, observed no aggression - only concern, for him.
Amber-gold eyes flickered, and he was quick to glance away, only to find that he had woken from the dream. The stranger standing before him moments ago was gone. Disappointment, frustration and the beginnings of despair all closed in on him at once, a crushing weight for such a wearied young soul to bear. In a hidden hollow of his being, where the memory of the one who had freed him would always dwell - alive within him as long as he drew breath, a resonant voice sounded, and he shivered at it’s gentle reminder: ‘Fate goes as she must, dear one.’
It was enough, more than enough to ground him. That the same apparition had come to him again, this time in his waking hours, and near close enough to touch… The radiant young male would take it as a sign, and a promise. (He would never forget that face, and when he saw it again free of the mists of mystery, he would know. Surely his Dream-Guide must be here, upon this unknown speck of land. Why else would the water deliver him here?)
One darkened ear twisted back to the young mare, and with a flash of guilt, the stallion, Shangri-La (he hadn’t yet come to the realisation that this name belonged to him yet, though this was always who he had been), turned back to her in acknowledgement of her stammered apology. “Fret not, my lady,” he sought to reassure. “The folly is mine to own, and I claim responsibility for every ache and wound that has been given me to endure.”
There was a rawness to his words, owing to the tightening of his throat from a sudden up-swelling of devastating loss, but he clung to the next words that were offered to him by the gentle young mare, as if they were a lifeline to him. And his mouth, his mouth was so dry. “Tell me, please, is there a wellspring nearby?” Thirst returned to him with a savage intensity, but still, he did not urge, nor did he ask any more of her than knowledge. He could make it to an aquifer or a stream by himself - she need not give any more of herself than the time she had already given him, save for a few more moments.
And yet, in studying her face, it was Shangri-La that lingered (even if she began to move of in readiness to guide him, or quietly take her leave). “Is there anything you have need of, perhaps?” The question was asked gently with throbbing lip, and he would not pry if she indicated there wasn’t anything he could do. And yet, despite his worn state, and the fact that he was a nascent addition to these islands, his words were threaded through with fortitude, and hummed with a tranquil sort of certainty.
He was shaken, and had lost all he had ever known. But, if nothing else, he still had faith.
In the oracle that had twice come to him.
In the lesson drawn from the blood upon his tongue.
In himself.
|