Meadow

each horizon is a new beginning,
rise & reign

Hidden in the fog, the lone mare stiffens at the sound of approach, and her body coils, ready to spring. Green eyes scour the shifting shroud, but when there is no flurry of movement or eruptions of furious sound, she shifts her weight, relaxes into a patient and predatory posture. The young mare takes a moment to steady the sound of her breathing, and her ears twist and turn, searching for a scrap of sound. There, to her left, comes the sound of hooves upon the ground, slowing, and then stopping entirely. Raising her head, the mare hunts for a scent on the wind, catches a hint of masculine musk just as a voice calls out to her. The young mare with war in her blood and bones considers the greeting for a moment. Squinting against the mist, she attempted to discern the figure of the stallion who’d spoken to her, but she couldn’t see him, not yet.

“You’re a strange man, Akello,” the young mare rumbled in reply, her tone gravelly, and the deep tones that layered her voice belied her youth and hinted to a dark kind of wisdom. And she spoke again, filling the silence that blanketed them, neither hasty to cut him off if he had anything to say in defence of himself or expectantly waiting for him to carry the conversation. This was the way of the mare; if one had something to say, she would listen. But she did not depend upon the opinions of others, nor was she easily swayed from her own course.

“In the land of my birth, it is not the custom of a kappi to ask such things.” She did not give her name, not yet, (such intimate knowledge needed to be earned,) but if he listened close, and paid attention, perhaps he might glean a little insight into who she was. Now, the mare chose silence, and taking care to be quiet, so that she could listen, she honed in on the audible cues she received that would serve to help her pinpoint this stranger’s location, and circling, she shrugged her way through the misted veil that hung between them, and set her sights at last upon Akello’s silhouette.

With a tilt of her velvety brown muzzle, marred here and there by little nicks and scars that would only be discernible up close, Eivor boldly met the gaze of the stranger who stood before her, and asked of him without pretence (and yet the words carried a weight to them, as though whatever was given as an answer would mean much to the mare): “Do you not fight for what you want?”