09-07-2016, 10:06 PM
They make mountains out of molehills.
Or is it that they make molehills out of mountains?
Everything is topsy-turvy and turned all upside down!
She is on a mountain;
Can feel the rocks under her feet that tell her as much.
Can smell Springtime in the air - a billowy breath of flowers and breeze.
Up on a mountain…
There seems to be something not altogether right about this.
Home lacked the height of this mountain and she cannot smell the caves nearby. That alarms her; if this is not that mountain and there are no caves, then where is she? She cannot see - her eyes stare blindly (pun!) at everything and anything as panic seizes hold of her. It bubbles up grossly in her throat and numbs her limbs, making them feel thick and unresponsive. Maybe that was just from the lack of air; it had thinned out quite a bit up here - here, where there never was or used to be a remnant of rock.
Her senses are facing an overload; there is entirely too much stimuli for her to focus on. Sound assaults her ears untils he pins them back to her head. Smells assail her nose until she breathes out heavily in a pant. She hears one horse call out to another but something about the call is oddly familiar… it is her lover! He is still here! Excitement courses through her limbs and she is on the verge of running to him when she halts - paused; remembering that she cannot run up here because she is uncertain of her footing.
The bay roan mare treads the path with caution;
It will not do to come to him with scraped knees, sides heaving, and his name a wheeze on her lips.
Instead she calls to him in a whinnying long word that is his name - “Brynmor!” and she pushes all the love she feels for that stallion into her voice. “I’m over here!”
He’ll find her - he has to.
Isn’t that how it always works?