There were a great many things Osmanthus did not want to remember from the night he fled - hell, even from before then. His life had been nothing but war, battle, fighting. He knew little of intimacy and even less of love, and for so long had not questioned the means by which he lived. But things have a tendency of falling apart. He could remember the crackling of fire over the hills, the blaze a roaring beast that clawed its way higher into the sky and consumed everything in its path with white-hot jaws. At last the war had come to a climax, the final culmination of a decades-long conflict.
But it was a losing battle. Backed against a cliff outcropping by a rival warrior, each retreating step the dun stallion took was one step closer to death. He half-reared as his enemy struck out and the jagged edge of his hoof caught him square above the eye. A second quickly followed and struck him down.
The outcropping was already weak, worn from years of wind and rain and foot traffic. It gave beneath his weight and crumbled into pieces and with it went the stallion, gravity pulling him into the midnight black sea. The smug face of his victorious opponent taunted him as he disappeared over the edge. It wasn't a terribly high fall, not life-threatening in any significant way, but it felt like he was suspended in the air for minutes in a free fall that had his stomach in his mouth and his heart right behind it. The ocean swallowed him whole and tossed him against the rocks with abandon.
He fought to keep his head above the shifting waves, kicking against the frigid water to stay afloat. His skin stung as the the saltwater assailed his wounds. The echoes of war above were muted by the sea, but still unmistakable. With the cacophony drowned out by the tides, Osmanthus finally felt like he could think. And the first thing he thought was, 'I don't want to be here.'
On the heels of that thought was the realization that a choice was being presented to him. Before he could overthink or second-guess, Osmanthus turned and kicked his way through the currents. Away from the battle, the war, the bloodshed. Away from his family and his friends and his home. He turned only once to look back at the glowing speck on the horizon before he left it all behind.
As the sky began to lighten and dawn approached, Osmanthus spotted an island. It was something ― not a destination, really, because he hadn't one in mind to begin with. But it was enough. With the last of his energy, he swam towards it. The island rose to meet him and never before had he been so thankful to feel the earth beneath his hooves, even if it did give slightly beneath his weight. The dark-haired stallion collapsed at the edge of the great field that adjoined the beach and fell into a fitful sleep.
Some time later he was startled awake by the sound of voices. They were whispering all around him, hissing tones bringing him sharply into consciousness. Amber eyes snapped open and he glared hotly at the pair of young faces that looked, wide-eyed, back at him. No doubt they were curious about the numerous scars that covered his body, and the fresh ones that intertwined with them. "What?" he grumbled, voice a low bass, which was an effective tool that sent the pair of foals fleeing back to their mother's side.
Annoyed, Osmanthus got to his feet and turned his back on the trio of strangers. The limp in his leg was worse than usual as he located a new spot to idle, this one further inland where the meadow met a sparse forest. He disappeared between the trees and found a little bed of vines, old and unused. All he wanted to do was settle against the damp earth and rest until the foliage consumed him, but sleep came in fits now. He woke from one short nap just as the sun was beginning to dip below the canopy, throwing shards of light across the forest floor around him.
A lingering shadow just between the trees caught his attention, the unmistakable outline of another visible between the budding foliage that surrounded them. Osmanthus raised his head but didn't bother to get up this time, bristling under the gaze of the stranger who'd woken him from his nap.
"What do you want?" He demanded. But there was no harshness to the words, no fire or vigor in his tone, only a tired resignation.
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