The Lost Islands
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Making love to a m e m o r y
Posted on February 26, 2016 at 03:29:50 PM by Macabre




"If Love himself weep, shall not lovers weep,
learning from what sad cause he pours his tears?
Love hears his ladies crying their distress,
showing forth bitter sorrow through their eyes
because villainous Death has worked its cruel
destructive art upon a gentle heart,
and laid waste all that earth can find to praise
in a gracious lady, save her chastity."

There was a time in Macabre's life where all she dreamed about was finding a mate and settling down in a fruitful place where she could live out the rest of her days. The idea seemed so hollow now, unreachable, for the brown little mare. Love no longer existed for her. Her window to find it had long been shut. For some time, she believed the men who promised her protection, and her blood boiled under her skin when she was reminded of all the things she’d done in her past - every bit of herself she’d given up - for these empty promises of safety. The whole concept was mere myth, something mothers told their daughters and actions loved ones thrusted upon each other to build some sort of false sense of reality. Hopeless, is what it was. It's what Macabre had learned the hard way.

But prior to her current state of disillusionment, the mare was forced to use her wits to be noticed by those of the opposite gender. She was so used to being overlooked by stallions - the last one chosen or wooed when surrounded by more sparkly trinkets. So her mother had taught her to work harder, to be smarter. She was gifted in the art of conversation. Her vocabulary and wit made it easy for her to charm others, when needed. It was her ability to communicate and to strategize that made her valuable. But it had been so long since she'd played that game. After the death of her only child, Shiraz, she stopped trying so hard. She knew then she could only rely on herself to outrun the Reaper.

Macabre is not surprised by Vodnick's words, but the full weight of what that meant slowly crept over her. Chocolate-colored lobes flicked back against her poll as she thought about it, and she slowly backed several steps away from the large stallion. Macabre was hardly Ailill's most prized possession, but he would notice that she was adrift. She had hoped that Ailill and his neighbor would have some sort of friendly arrangement, and she cursed the young, naive boy under her breathe now. She was the one who would pay for his inexperience.

She would be lying if she said she wasn't somewhat curious about the role she could play in Paradise alongside Ailill. He needed a sounding board. An advisory committee of sorts, that he could gauge on the difficult topics that were surely to arise during his tenure as lead stallion of the terrain. She hoped her opinions could be of worth here. In some ways, it would be a motherly role for the mare, whom was robbed of her chance to mother her own kin. She wanted to give guidance, to worry about, to watch grow up.

"While I am flattered by your interest," Macabre began, her heat beating so loud in her chest that she could hear it in her ears. "I'm afraid you are mistaken." Her dark eyes shot up to meet his and she hoped silently that the joints in her legs weren't trembling as visibly as they felt. Vodnik seemed unperturbed and impassive about her existence, despite saying otherwise. She was a stranger, merely another commodity to accumulate. He couldn't care less about her. And Macabre wouldn't play the victim card as easily as she had in the past. "I will tell Ailill of how kindly you treated me. And perhaps, I will return for a visit some day." With a gentle bob of her petite head, the chestnut mare turned swiftly on her haunches with every intention of walking away.




"Hear then how Love paid homeage to this lady;
I saw him weeping there in human form,
observing the stilled image of her grace;
and more than once he raised his eyes toward Heaven,
where that sweet soul already had its home,
which once, on earth, had worn enchanting flesh."

Macabre | 6 | Mare | Mustang X Morgan | 14.2 HH | flaxen chestnut | © Vinyl




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