here the world is quiet Posted on July 18, 2013 at 07:17:48 PM by f l e e t e
fleete
The forest was different, now - only the memories of the spotted stallion lingered here, and the cathedral-like silence, and solace, that had once reigned here was absent. Likewise was the forest's russet king, Vercingetorix, difficult to find; Fleete has caught only glimpses of the elusive creature since her arrival. More conspicuous, and predictable, is the herd she has found herself numbered amongst; their lives tied together irrevocably in the same rigid cycle that the nameless grey mare leads them through. Stream, clearing, forest, stream. Waking with the lavender dawn, a cool drink to soothe the ache of her parched throat. Retreating into the trees when the sun is directly overhead. Returning to the clearing at twilight to fill their empty bellies. Simple desires, simple pleasures. These, and her young daughter, are her life now.
Fleete has resigned herself to the whims of fate, but she grows restless with each rigid day that passes. She is still haunted by the world of pain that had lingered beneath the eyes of her firstborn daughter as she had left the cove. And slowly, inexorably, the weight of this memory begins to break her.
As the impending dusk swaddles the land in a blanket of shadow, the peach mare abruptly raises her head, her features animated, excited even, as her ears push forward in response to a silent call. Breaking away from the stifling confines of the herd, Fleete slips the noose of her captivity and glides into the nebulous twilight of the forest like a ghost. Trailing close behind, the pale filly is her dam in miniature; from the pale sandy coat to the graceful certainty with which she commands her ungainly limbs as they wind sinuously between the trees without breaking stride. Their sounds of their passage, though quiet, echo across the eerily silent landscape; the dull thud of unshod hooves over scattered loam is like thunder, and a muted roar sounds in Fleete's ears, keeping tandem with the erratic beating of her heart.
Emerging from the gloom of the trees and onto the beach, Fleete arrives shortly after the pale mare and her son, her hazel eyes briefly greeting the sea and the sunset before the colt's jerky, disjointed strides draw her attention. He is edging toward the forest's edge, and as his dam moves forward as well, Fleete catches a glimpse of a dark, prostrate figure. Her heart pounding mercilessly against the bone bars of its cage, the mare steps warily closer too, and glimpses the familiar pattern of jagged white, like a bolt of lightning, that traces a path from withers to white-stockinged leg.
She knows long before the metallic scent of blood burns acridly in her nostrils that something is wrong.
"Lyone!" she wails abruptly, the single word torn harshly from a throat that is gritty and constricted with impending tears. And then, without regard for the other woman, she is rushing forward, jostling Therese in her haste to reach her eldest daughter's side. Nudging the still body, and then grooming the disheveled coat with frantic ministrations of tongue and teeth, as if by this gesture she could hope to raise the dead. Fawne moves hesitantly closer to the small, feebly-stirring bundle with a curious muzzle outstretched, but Fleete does not see her daughter or the newborn child. She is no longer even aware of the stranger or her son as her limbs fold beneath her, the sobs rising from deep within her breast like a building tide. The waves of her grief have risen up to bury her, and Fleete does not resurface.
| akhal-teke x andalusian | mare | six | 16hh | chestnut pearl |
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