Meadow

to live and burn is
the most exquisite form of self destruction

Though her teeth succeed in breaking his skin more than once, the superficial wounds that the ‘Teke inflicts serve no purpose in the end. The pain of it cannot touch Rade where he is, somewhere beyond reason but before madness. If anything, it only incites him further; deepens the chord of cruelty that had been struck within him. Before he is through, they are both bleeding, both aching and shaking with - fury? Fear? The white-dusted palomino could not have said even when his hooves rejoined the earth; those two emotions had become twisted together in a way that made them indiscernible from one another. Still trembling, he could only stand while the overflowing dark pools of his pupils retracted, and the rings of amber that surrounded them re-emerged. Even when the hooves of his (victim) companion thudded against the muscled wall of his chest, Rade only grunted and stepped backwards.

It was her words that finally woke him, dousing the flame of his unanticipated passion like a splash of icy water.

I win! She was crowing, as if finding a sick sort of pride in the way that she had twisted and broken him. And if that was not enough, on the heels of her boasts followed the harsh and undeniable truths. That he was alone and weak and not far from death. That he was a shell, empty and discarded by the world that had already begun to move on without him. She left nothing, taking everything from the roan stallion. His pride, his redemption, and the hope that had still flickered within him. In the end, he had proven himself to be no better than he had been years ago, when he’d come to this meadow and swept away the last dregs of Fatale’s innocence for his own benefit.

But now, now - she, Minthe, had taken from him. Had clung to him and refused to relent until he had given in to an act that went against his will, against his desires. Horrified and repulsed, Rade could only stagger backwards. Could only stagger away from her on legs that felt as wobbly as a newborn’s, as if the bones had been plucked from within them. His chest rising and falling rapidly, the golden stallion turned away from the red mare. Away from the Lagoon, and the thin thread of purpose to which he’d clung for too long.

And - like her - he fled, wanting nothing more than to rebury the long-forgotten part of him that the chestnut mare had unearthed.

stallion . twenty-two . palomino roan . mustang mix . 15.1hh
debonaire x neassa