like a moth to the flame Posted on March 20, 2024 at 00:47:12 AM by Kipling
The frigidity with which he regards her acts as a shock to her nervous system, not unlike falling through ice to water cold as death. "I live here, Kipling. I have obligations." Dumbfounded, Kipling stared at Quinn. She could not believe he just said that to her. What about Salinger? What about Steinbeck who was growing up without knowing his father? Even if she had meant nothing to him, surely they couldn't mean so little as well? Disbelief is plain on her face, then a flash of sadness before anger took over. The stallion she thought cared about her turned away, creating distance between them before hovering close and demanding she stand.
Fresh anger makes the mare find enough strength to stand. The movement is quick and awkward. She totters on weakened legs not unlike a foal, but she stands. She cannot help the contact between them as she rose with such tight quarters. His muzzle on her skin burns. Everything he did served to wound her. Ears pin back into the variously-colored strands on her mane before she pushes him away with what little force she can muster. As badly as she wants to melt into him, he has cut her too deeply for Kipling to simply do as he said. "You have an obligation to me, Quinn. To your children! Or did you forget that?" Her heart is raw and aching as if freshly cleaved in her chest.