Meadow

cw // blood mention

"Well, shit," August said, as though all he'd done was stepped on a ladybug or followed a stream in the wrong direction. In fact, a long, thin gash arced up his right foreleg from the bottom of his cannon bone to his knee. A rock had caught him in the shallows, and now blood was pooling around his hoof, staining the wet sand a sickly burgundy. He leaned to get a better look, tilting his head to keep his sodden silver forelock out of his eyes. It was a clean wound, and the blood did not flow too freely. It would look a little nasty for the time being, he decided, but soon it would be just another scar on his mahogany hide.

"There's always something," August murmured to himself, and lifted the leg gently, grimacing at the sharp pain that lanced upwards. He was beginning to think that particular leg was cursed, with how often it had sustained an injury in the past few years. It certainly seemed as though he was limping more than not.

The wound had clotted and his sea-slick coat had dried by the time August found a neat little clearing with a stream wriggling through it a short stroll away. This late in the year he had not expected lush fields, but patches of healthy grass clung to the edges of the brook, their color popping like jewels from beneath the golden-brown leaf litter. It was a cold, clear day, and the sun was falling to the west by the time his hunger and thirst were sated. His eyes roamed the half-naked trees and his nostrils flared to test the air. There were horses nearby, but whether any fancied approaching a stranger who stank of salt and blood remained to be seen.

August sighed, and his thoughts turned to a mare with golden hair.