While Kune waits, he reflects. Images of his past life flare like embers in his brain, then die away as quickly as they’d come, only to be replaced by another. There are so many memories he has tried to escape, but no matter how far he travels, he cannot outrun them. The senseless slaughter of his family and friends will forever be branded on his brain, along with the guilt in knowing he and the other Strážce had failed to prevent it.
When one believes one is cursed, socialization is the last thing on one’s mind. For Kune, this has not so much been because he has not craved it - horses are naturally social creatures, after all - but because a part of him, a very deep, dark part of him, believes he does not deserve it. An even more irrational part of him thinks that somehow he could infect others with his presence. It’s now been so long since Kune’s had a conversation that he wonders if his voice works any more. The only words he has exchanged have been monosyllabic, with strangers that tossed him a friendly greeting or asked for directions. He has also eavesdropped on conversations, and has picked up a few words of the native language. Otherwise, he has been effectively mute.
Why then, has he returned to this place? Why has he sought out a creature whose existence he is not even sure of? Kune has reasons, but he holds them deep within his chest, nestled between the breath in his lungs and his beating heart, for only him to know. For now, his only goal is to test the first shred of unfounded hope he’s experienced in months.
He is nearly asleep when he hears the voice, and so he is slow to react. First, his dark eyes snap open. He lifts his huge head, and, aware of something in his peripheral vision, turns his head ever so slightly, and looks. A tall, dark silhouette blocks the way he had come into the thicket, the stark grey light of the winter afternoon illuminating her from behind. She is here, as if he had summoned her through will alone.
Kune is breathless for several long moments, frozen like a rabbit hiding under the gaze of a wolf. Then he stands, slowly, as if moving too suddenly would cause her to dissipate from existence. He takes a step closer, pulse hammering in his throat, eyes locked on her face. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse despite his attempts to speak softly.
“Božena...?” he asks in their mother tongue. “Am I dreaming again? Or are you real this time?”
8; kladruber; black; 17.2hh
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