05-05-2017, 09:00 PM
Seirath’s figure was an anomaly of breeding. It was impossible to tell, with certainty, which races had given him his powerful limbs and chest, his lithe, graceful movement, his strength and height. Only his features; eloquently chiseled from the rich, burnished bay of his body smacked of anything in particular, for his face was unmistakably Arabian, though maybe a little fuller, and he carried it as such. This was not the only sign of a life sparked in brilliance and still waxing with the light and promise of youth. No, there were many others: the determined, unwavering manner of his steps spoke of confidence, the deliberate arrangement of his features of intelligence, the carefully contained laughter in the smoky glass of his iris of a personable nature. But even these were eclipsed by the undrawn force beneath his skin. The solemn, unflinching equanimity that pulsed through him. A force, it seemed, he had not yet tapped, which had no purpose but in its own waiting.
Above him the sun bled its finale into the clouds; concluding the wrath the day had inflicted on the restless world beneath. He stood still as the sun sunk wearily from the horizon, his eyes enmeshed in the play of light through the atmosphere. As the colour drained from the realm above him, so too did it drain from the cure of his shoulder and the length of his flank. The burnished gold of the day turned to a rich, dark bay like the coals of doused flame, fading to black coal at his neck and feet. His profile was elegant against the pale green of the skyline, and indistinct against the navy velvet that hung impatiently above it. There was a slight give to his posture as the sun tucked itself behind the edge of the world, like resignation, and unmistakable even to a casual eye. His eyes looked after the path of the sun, the expression on his guarded face almost wistful. His breath, visible in the gathering chill, clung in warm ghostly tendrils to his mouth and nose.
She is gone, his shadow, fled in her immaculate perversion as the night reached its apex, to blossom in the darkness that was her own until the sun called upon her again. He was bereft without her, but a few hours had been enough to separate him from the quivering, panic-stricken parent he had been when he had crossed into this world. It was still there, probably less well contained than it appeared, but it was in order now, and it was not betrayed in the slate glass of his eyes. Without her he was rougher, stronger – the grace and flippant whimsy of her was gone from him as well, and left him somber and sober – with only the harshest poetry in the ring of his foot to the shadowed earth. He felt all of this keenly as the evening descended above him, and felt instantly alien to himself. As though he had happened to glimpse himself in a mirror and found too much had changed.
As though to turn his inner eye from this unflattering imagery he turned his head, glancing around himself. Someone had told him that this was another open gathering place, like the nearby Forest, and he had opted to start here while the light held out and he could still see across the length of it easily. But that was more than an hour ago, and now it was night, and continuing to search in a strange land in the dark was not logical. So he was resigned. Resigned to waiting for the morning. Resigned to a sleepless night in this strange land, surrounded by strangers. Just then a ripple of gold, reflecting a wayward slant of sunlight or an early flash of moon, caught his eye and something like hope stirred in his breast, but as he pulled the swatch of colour into focus, forced his eyes to pay attention, it was clear that this was not Alayaya. Though it was a palomino, this was definitely not a child, but a mare.
She was passing along a reasonably worn track near to where he was standing among the shorn clover. In retrospect, he would never be sure what had made him speak up – perhaps it was the fleeting resemblance to the missing filly that drew him, or perhaps just the weariness of his sudden solitude in her absence. It had been a long time since he had craved the company of other horses, but the Alayaya’s loss felt suffocating. It was instinct, not deliberate thought, and before she had passed completely by him he said “Good evening,” in the steady, warm voice he had forgotten he owned, and bowed his head with faultless deference. He said no more, because the deliberate thought caught up with his impulse and he realized it was late, and she was likely on her way home, and so should be afforded the opportunity to politely pass him by.
Seirath - patience