black horse reaping;
And so it goes—
Black wing, black bird, black eyes—
Black heart in a black cage, the wandering wisps of someone else. He was no good, he had never been good—not for anything or anyone. A solemn totem from an ancient past. Days wherein blood and anger were borne into flesh and carried. Perhaps he was a disease.
Still, the truth remains, written on his forehead and the sleek side of his ribs. The truth of a broken heart, then a broken mind. What was once solid has now turned soft, has rotten down into a thing unfathomable—yet, he breathes. He walks, moves, talks, feels. And their scent lingers on the cold breeze, filling his nostrils, which widened instinctively. Bereft he comes, staggered by loss and greed and revenge of something he cannot quite remember.
But he sees them, the pair, how they move together. Hip and shoulder, mouth to neck, blind and subtle but together. Gael watches from the dried hillock, the parched earth beneath his feet a reminder of the coming doom—the wasteland stretching to infinity before his eyes. He lifts his head slightly, inhales and exhales a soft neigh towards them.
Then he comes, slow and steady. A black thread through the mist, something tangible and bitter to look upon. His ears flick back and forth, his tail lifts, a broken banner of surrender. Gael has no motives for approaching them, simply he has been alone for too long. Wandering every little space in search of something he will never find.
Can they see it in the hollow of his dark eyes? The impression of something distant and haunted, which pulls even at the edges of his blistered mouth. “
You two are traveling together? Are you new to the Island?” It comes soft, tempting, forbidden fruit too ripe and near to sickly sweet. He tilts his face towards them, his lips pulling in an easy way suggesting things buried deep and often left unsaid.
gael