all my fragile strength is gone

she relishes the first few steps into the ocean, enjoying the soft powerful rush of saltwater as it surges around her legs and pulls her, moves her. she falls into a rhythmic pattern behind the pale stallion, her delicate head bobbing unceremoniously through the waves as she works to maintain his pace. she is smaller, and though lithe with smooth rolling muscles ample beneath her dark coat, she still struggles to remain directly behind him. it is another unkindness he has dealt her. she feels shame, in knowing that she would slow him down, in knowing that if he were to sneak a glance at her following behind him, he would know that she has failed his test by being weak, slow. she waits, for him to turn, to catch a glimpse of her, and for the wave of his disapproval to hit her.

she shouldn't care, she shouldn't want to please him... she doesn't know him, he has not shown her any courtesy, and yet, she cannot help but feel as if she is now loyal to him. her shame begins to disappear as she slowly realizes that perhaps he doesn't care, or wouldn't even notice if she had drown in the surf behind him. she begins to contemplate which she would prefer... for him to have noticed and left her to drown, or if he had simply forgotten she was following. her limbs, though strong, were not familiar with the lengthy swims necessary for island dwellers and had begun to grow tired. anger was beginning to blossom coldly in back of her mind when suddenly, for she had ceased paying attention to her swim and had gotten quite lost in her thoughts, she felt the bump of her hooves against the sandy bottom of the shoreline.

she jolted back to reality as she clambers up the sandy beach, her dark body now nearly black, dripping with seawater. she cannot help but flick her tail, sending a small spray of water in the direction of the fellow who had paid her so little care on their journey. her sense of loyalty had not squelched the tiny spark of a temper that flickered in her soul. she stands for a moment, allowing her body to readjust to the sands beneath her hooves. sezja. sezja is my name the words are but a whisper on her lips but they seem to echo in her head as the spark is fanned to flame when she sees him gesture to follow him like some lost puppy. perhaps she had been too hopeful that his sour mood would have improved. perhaps he was simply this unpleasant all the time.

s e z j a

mare : 4 yrs : russian arabian : liver chestnut : 15.1 : kafkaesque