She woke in a rage, aching all over,cursing vehemently as she coughed up water. There was salt burning in her throat, and as she scanned the empty coastline, she felt that emptiness within her, a great yawning darkness that threatened to swallow her whole. There was salt burning in her eyes, too, but it was not from the sea. The sooty mare knew not where she was. She knew not who she was. There were echoes of a storm thundering in her head, and she couldn’t, she couldn’t… Remember. There was only a high-pitched keening, fraught with fear, calling out a name. ‘Skylla! No, Skylla, come back to me!’ “Where are you? Who are you?” came the plaintive cry, falling ragged and mournful from lips that trembled of their own accord.
But there was nothing but her echo, (where are you?) asking questions she had no answers to. (And softer, ever more distant and despondent; who are you?).
But she had her name. She knew it was hers, it must be, for the way it felt like it belonged. “Get up, Skylla,” the mare grunted under her breath, and pulled herself to her hooves. Every muscle quivered in protest, and she gasped at the pain that rippled across her hide. Scrapes and bruises. A nasty gash down her left side. But she had to move, to get away from the sea. It was angry, she could tell by the way it rumbled to the howling of the wind. It was hungry always, and by the state of her, Skylla figured she’d escaped it’s wrath. But it yearned for that which it claimed as its own. If she could help it, she’d not be entering the waters of it any time soon.
Skee-laar. Skee-laar.
The mare stiffened at the piercing call of her name, and tilted her head to gaze skyward, her hazel-brown eyes narrowing as she caught sight of a pair of gulls circling above, mocking her with their garbled voices. “Begone!” she bellowed, and turned her back, denying them. With a wild gleam in her eye, she surveyed that which lay inland – a sprawling meadow, bordering on lush tropical growth. She’d caught glimpses of the swaying palms, as she’d been tossed by the waves and carried by a current around the southern tip of the island. Skylla swayed a moment, dizzy and disoriented, and upon closing her eyes, saw a flicker of something in her mind that brought her comfort. This land was not entirely unknown to her, even if she did not know its name. Skylla had dreamed of it. Five brothers circled around their mother. But no – one brother had been lost to the sea…
With a snort, her stomach twisting, empty as her heart, empty as her soul, Skylla hobbled inland in search of fresh water to rid her mouth of the sickening saltiness. She moved without caution, driven by instinct. No hesitation. Because, along with the sense of belonging that her name brought her, Skylla was sure of one other thing. She was a creature that had no need for fear, because it was she who should be feared. This was perhaps even truer a thing than ever. When one had nothing to lose, it only enabled them to fight that much more fiercely. But there would always be souls too reckless to care for such warnings – tempted by them perhaps, or too blind and ignorant to see them.
Even as the lone, silvery-maned mare drank from the stream (water so sweet that it made her void-heart ache, but she didn’t understand why), she sensed another approaching, and slowly raised her head and turned to watch them with something dark and guarded flickering in her eyes, chin dripping wet, her damp tresses still hanging limp. “Souls come to water for many reasons. What is it that drew you?” she asked, her voice soft and clear despite the roughness of her throat, but sharp, too, in a way. Skylla said nothing more, and was obvious about her expectation of an answer. If the stranger was to draw any closer, she’d immediately coil like a sea serpent, ready and more than willing to defend herself and maintain a measure of personal space.
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