Falls

HOW WELL HE WEARS THAT SMILE MINGLED WITH WRATH

Far more than anger burned beneath Apollo’s pearly, red-gold hide; desire, and a craving for something worthy of him. Let it never be said that the gilded wanderer-king did not confess to the aspects of him that may considered undesirable. Conceit, greed, a hunger for power. But where some (such as that haughty upstart Achilles) painted such traits objectionable, Apollo simply could not understand.

What was wrong with his wanting?

And if ever he possessed a position, a measure of power, the undivided attention of a fine mare, it was because he had earned it. Whether through wit and wiles, patience and pretense, wrath and ruin, Apollo fought for all he had within his grasp. The stallion of white and gold had surveyed his life through blue eyes clear and deep as the summer sky, and believed he had everything he wanted.

Then Achilles had come along, and shattered the illusion.

Apollo could still smell the dust as it clung to their sweat-dampened hides. The furious pounding of his heart had deafened him to the cries of his brothers as they’d commanded the younger bachelor to back off. Their eyes had met only a moment before Apollo had torn himself away with a snarl reverberating in his ribs. They were fire and water, and their coming together in such an ardent and aggressive fashion was just a matter of time. Apollo had burned with the shame of his defeat, and to have been at the mercy of Achilles had been humiliating. His narcissistically deep sense of self-worth and the impulsive departure of the agitator and his loyal brother had soothed much of the disgrace Apollo felt.

But in the days that followed, it did not go unnoticed by the high-ranking stallion that the young coltish males who lingered at the fringes of the herd where thinning out. It seemed that something had been started the moment Apollo had fallen to his knees. And what Achilles had started, Apollo would finish.
Because his eyes had been opened to a longing that had been buried for all these years.

So, come the break of dawn, only several days after his defeat, Apollo had cut ties with the mighty band of stallions he’d built from nothing. How, or even if, the bachelor herd would recover from his loss, he’d never know. (Though some nights, when he was feeling nostalgic and tender-hearted, he might think of those he’d grown to trust with his life and wonder.)

The gilded king of nowhere revelled in the new-found freedom, and not even when the land he roamed gave way to the briny sea did he falter in his forward-driving momentum. These islands, far enough from home that Apollo was confident he wouldn’t be haunted by ghosts from his past, were teeming with possibilities. Confident as he was, Apollo would take his time to learn the lay of the land.

It was faith and not only arrogance that led the stallion to believe he’d find what it was he yearned for. Because he was in need, and wasn’t afraid to admit that. Apollo was a great many things, but a liar he was not and never had been. The ivory splashed stallion was no coward either. He would own what he was, and he would jealously guard all that he considered his.

So when he spied the dark brindled warrioress from his transitory throne of earth and stone, something dark wavered in the depths of his ocean eyes, and he knew. And as he watched the attack of the mountain cat brought to a swift and grisly end, Apollo felt his heart trembling inside him, and not just for the adrenaline that coursed through his veins for having watched such a battle of wills with the highest stakes there were.

He was not the only spectator of the sooty roan mare’s dance with death, already a shadowy form came slinking gracefully into view. Apollo lingered on his hilltop a moment longer – he cut a resplendent, solitary figure, arrayed as he was by the deep orange-gold rays of the late afternoon sun – and worked the tightness from his shoulders where the muscles had bunched instinctively at the sound of the lion’s predatory yowl.

A call rose from the depths of him, and when it reached his lips, Apollo set it free with eagerness. It was a cry of admiration and salutation, an exclamation that the mighty mare’s victory had not gone unnoticed. A broad smile, unabashed in its wild revelry of such a savage affair, spread across his muzzle, and without hesitation, the stallion flowed down the hillside to meet the duo of mares. Apollo approached with confidence, arching his neck as he did so, slowing as he neared them, so he did not feel hurried in his appraisal of the lion-slayer and the shadow that stood beside her. The smile the gilded stallion wore only settled more firmly upon his lips, even as his blue eyes shone with respect.

“I’ve never witnessed such a feat,” he rumbled in his hearty baritone. “My lady, the legends of my homeland are come to life in you, and yet even they do not do you justice.” The darkling gleam flickered in the depths of his eyes like fire. She truly was exquisite in form. Those pale forelegs, which had mere moments ago crushed the bones of a beast, and draped across her form a brindling that echoed his own colouration, even though she was dark in every place that he was light. He skilfully pulls his immediate focus from the buckskin to the black mare, and though he is no less drawn to the former, he is able to appreciate the latter.

Truly, he had never seen a mare quite so sleek, and through a flicker of concern (after all, it was always a shame when a mare succumbed to death for a lack of something so basic as food – a tragedy, and a travesty) Apollo finds himself admiring her for her own strength. For surely an undernourished creature could not possess a coat that gleamed like the moon’s reflection in a pool of water when the night was deepest?

For now, the Azteca appreciated her presence, and the tall, well-built male felt a kinship with her (though whether it would prove to be lasting as he believed the pull towards the brindle warrior woman will be is not something he is in a hurry to discover). It was clear to him, by observation alone, that the ink-black mare is as in awe of the roan beside them as he is, and in this moment, Apollo is disinclined to deny the warrioress the recognition she is deserving of.

“I must admit, when I battled my way through the ocean, I never dreamed I’d be blessed with a welcome such as this,” he said lightly, bobbing his head. The pale shock of his forelock fell across his eyes, which sparked with playfulness from behind the veil of white strands. The body of the cat was given a cursory glance. “Any regrets I may have had of the life left behind were felled alongside the leonine beast. Save one, that is.” Apollo trailed off, glancing between the mares, the grin spread across his lips taking on a coy edge.

With a shake of his head, and a rumble of laughter, he introduced himself finally, with a sweeping bow, hooded gaze never leaving the two forms before him. “I lament not having met either one of you sooner, but alas… Never-the-less, it is an honour to make your acquaintances now. I am Apollo.” He straightened, and settled before them, his red-gold and white ears ever attentive, and eager to hear for the first time the unique melody of each one’s voice.