The Lost Islands
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Making love to a m e m o r y
Posted on August 1, 2016 at 08:45:08 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."

One chestnut lobe flicks forward and back as Vodnik bellows instructions. The petite mare watches behind dark eyes as he strides forward with his far reaching gait. She hesitates for a moment in his wake, unsure of herself around him and equally as unsure of how to gauge the language and expressions he has for her. She is completely bewildered by this stallion, by his interest in her and the way they interact with each other now. It makes her feel even more uncomfortable, if that's even possible. She watches his backside as he strides further away before tossing her small head high in the air and taking off after him at a brisk trot.

Macabre doesn't try to match his strides or his pace. She is well aware that she is unable to. The mare feels more comfortable being slightly behind him anyway -- there's no need to force any kind of unwelcomed small talk this way. But Macabre is too hyper-focused on the path ahead and the stallion leading the way to take in the scenery of her new home. She focuses on planting one hoof in front of the other instead of the sounds of the forest as they they enter a more densely covered part of the terrain, which leads to a more rocky and up and down path.

When they reach the head of a steep slope, Macabre halts abruptly and gauges the terrain for a long moment. She watches as Vodnik's frame sinks into the soft soil from underneath his weight. She watches as pieces of the earth tumble down the trail he's carved out, landing ungracefully and breaking a part on the solid, flat path at the bottom. The slope is far from the most treacherous path Macabre had ever stumbled across. After all, she'd lived on Tinuvel, where slopes steeper than this are covered with thick ice for much of the year. She'd conditioned herself to the rocky paths of the Peak during her time living among the mares at perhaps the highest altitude in all the islands. She's been the sole survivor of a flood that killed her entire herd and swallowed up her homeland. This slope was nothing.

With a deep breathe the mare stepped slowly onto the unforgiving trail after the stallion, her hind end hovering so low with all her weight that her rump nearly touched the ground itself. She let out a quiet gasp when at first she began to slide, but she quickly put her front legs to work to slow her pace as she ambled down the path slowly and without grace, but successfully.

She stares plainly at Vodnik now that she'd arrived unscathed at the bottom of the trail, lobes flicked forward as she listens for the nearby water source. She says nothing to him as she strides toward the riverbank, dropping her nose to the layer of water-based plants that hide the surface from view. The small mare steps into the shallow waters to further investigate, sniffing the plants before she begins to paw at them, ripping them from their otherwise motionless position atop the creek. Only once she's created a gap in their cover does she begin to drink.

Once she drinks her fill, Macabre turns to look at the stallion again, her tongue lapping at the remnants of her drink that still cling to her whiskered maw. Her heart is beating quickly in her chest, maybe from the leftover adrenaline from scaling the slope, or perhaps from the silence between them that's slowly killing her. With a quick swipe of her thin blonde tail, she blurts out: "Why am I here?" Her stare is hard fixed on the draft breed now. "You owe me an explanation, at least."




"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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