The flame-red augur cannot be sure if the darker brute who journeys ahead of him knows that he trails behind, but the possibility was not to be discounted. They had parted indifferently, the red not saying a word, watching his sooty companion leave in silence. But that night, the fire-tinged stallion had dreamed of the sea. And so it was, when dawn broke, that he found himself following in the footsteps of the one he called brother.
Half a day behind, the final part of his journey is made well after sunset. Some would question his intelligence, or perhaps his sanity, for taking such a risk, venturing into the unknown blind and helpless in the sea. Those who have the (mis)fortune of truly knowing him would definitely ponder over the second, but they’d never question the red male, nor yet dare to deem him a fool, because if they ever did, it would be to their greatest detriment.
There rises ahead of him a mountain capped in snow, and the moonlight cast upon it makes it gleam like a beacon, not so much guiding him to safety as drawing him in, a hungry, hunting soul.
He sleeps fitfully throughout the night, senses on high alert - everything is different here, the way the wind howls, the scents in the air… One is familiar to him, and when he catches hold of it, the heat and the fire that roil and burn just beneath his surface, he stirs to life and shrugs off the exhaustion and the trembling cold, or soldiers on despite it.
The trail leads him ever nearer to the base of the mountain, but when he comes upon a path that diverges, instinct drives him to take the untrod one, so that he is no longer following in the footsteps of one who is as his kin. He is circling around to meet him.
The journey up the slopes is arduous, and his body burns, for it is not yet recovered from the long swim. He passes the mouth of a narrow cave, little more than a furrow in the stone, and pauses there momentarily, curious. But sounds and stronger scents call him onwards and upwards.
The one he seeks stands out, stark against the stone of the mountain, a shadow. The russet red stallion shows no outward sign of recognition, his gaze shifts between the mares that think they have the dark stallion hemmed in. The chestnut sabino picks his way carefully, angling up the mountain to stand more-or-less level with the grey desert-dweller mare, and he speaks, tone light, words foreign to the ears of all (but one). “Mada kia pradme deja,” he pauses, lifting his chin to look toward the white and blue mare looking down on them from above, blocking the path higher. “Lauke nun, brolin?” He is extremely aware of the black chestnut, but does not spare him more than side-eye and a flick of an ear. (The words are all for him.)
They will have time later. To talk. Or tussle.
Both, most likely.
The red shakes his head, then, as though just realising that the mares wouldn’t understand the strange language he’d spoken. “His kind?” he queries, voice measured, addressing the roan’s words. (Inwardly, dark, heady amusement swarms, slavering for violence - she thinks he has seen his kind before? She had never seen the sooty chestnut’s like, and indeed, the red chestnut’s like either.) “Our kind,” he amends after a moment, taking the meaning of her semblance of a threat.
“You allow no stallions here?” he ventures plainly, seeking to learn more (while already suspecting the answer he sought already lay in his possession), taking care not to trespass any further, but not keen on retreating quickly either. He fell silent then, watching waiting, feeling very much like he was balancing on the edge of a razor sharp precipice, with a great yawning chasm either side. It sent a thrill through him, one that he trapped, suppressed inside, so better keep in check the all-consuming fervor that ran riot within. |