He remembers the shuddering of the earth, the groaning of the plates as they crash together and separate, rumbling hungrily beneath his hooves. He had been standing in the ocean with the water pressing against his chest (he had felt truly alive in that moment, the frigid dark waters soothing the churning rage that dwells inside him), but it was fleeting. It was a strange feeling as the water begins to sink lower, rushing out from beneath him like someone had unplugged a drain. For a moment he merely watches curiously, his head tilted slightly in confusion as the world behind him shatters and cracks. Then, with more power than he had ever felt, the water pulls his legs from underneath him.

The weightlessness he felt was nothing like he had ever experienced. It was dark, cold womb enveloping him and though his heart rate increases with adrenaline, fear was not at the forefront of his mind. The water was where he belonged. He was ready to sink down into the darkness.

He had awoken with open wounds from the tide scraping him against coral and rock, sand gritting inside his flesh painfully. The salt had dried there, stinging every moment he tried to move. The beach he had been brought to was bright and quiet, the ocean’s water gently lapping at his legs. Moments later he was with another colt, nearly his age, as well as Azazelle. He wanted to rest, to sleep in the darkness of a cave or underbrush but instead he was forced to stay out in the open, with the sun’s rays burning his skin and the fierceness of anger burning in his belly.

Shortly he had left, though he knew he would be returning. Ischia’s ocean attracted him and he could not stay away – no matter the present company.

Maugrim limps his way to freshwater, his wounds burning and aching for relief. It takes him a long time to travel to the river, he had lost track of time as the sun moves through the sky. He’s thankful that no one seems to be interested in him – though who would want to try to talk to a yearling who was covered with open, festering wounds that stretch and break with every step? Besides, the scowl on the young boy’s face was hopefully enough to keep others away.

Everyone has stayed away from him since he was just a foal. This is something that is not unfamiliar to him.

Maugrim does not hesitate when he reaches the river; he enters without a thought, the water immediately cooling his hot, burning flesh. Blood, both dried and freshly pouring, stain the clear water. He sighs with relief, a shiver running through his spine. He lowers his head, putting his muzzle beneath the water and drinking deeply.  Without a thought, he asks the water to rise up to meet him, sending a small and comforting wave across his back and neck. The water soaks into his skin – he was beginning to feel better.

It’s possibly hours that pass as he wades in the river, ever so often making the water splash against him to soothe his wounds.

The dark evergreen and pearlescent yearling decides to come closer to the bank, his legs wearily bringing him to the shoreline. As he pulls himself out of the water, he feels weaker. It was harder to carry his own weight without the aide the water gave him. He heaves himself onto the sand, standing weakly as the water laps at his fetlocks. The river’s water runs in rivulets down his legs, pooling at his hooves and his short mane plasters to his neck. His head is low as the springtime breeze begins to dry him. With one eye lazily open, the tired and bruised yearling attempts to nap.

m a u g r i m.

His breath is ragged and shallow as it blows from his nostrils and dark green lips, chapped and bleeding from his time in the saltwater. He runs his tongue over the sharp corners, hungrily tasting the dried blood and freshwater that still lingers there. The wind stirs, lifting his short mane (for it still was not grown out long because of his youth) from his neck, cooling the hot and somewhat rotten wounds that adorn his body. He shifts his weight, his right side leaning into the soft and compacted muck of the riverbank, wincing as the largest wound on his right shoulder opens once again, fresh blood pooling in the deep sluice of flesh. He snorts with frustration – the wounds were too deep to heal.
 
A sound jolts him from his inner thoughts, and before his eyes even open his ears are hidden in the short crop of lavender and green that was his mane. His lips curl menacingly to show his teeth, the cuts ripping with the movement. The pain seems to not bother him as much now, his adrenaline pumping fluidly through his veins and masking any sort of stinging or discomfort. His dark eyes quickly find the source; a robust, auburn stallion (though he could tell was young – still a fledgling) splashed with stark white stands before him, his eyes glimmering curiously as he stares down at Maugrim. The yearling stares up at him from beneath a hooded brow, refusing to lift his head to see him more clearly. The unnamed stallion is looking out into the open water of the river to his right, surveying Maugrim with a slightly less than judgmental look. He’s used to it.
 
Ears still pinned and teeth bared warningly, Maugrim cautiously watches the stallion. His nostrils flare, inhaling scents but all where unknown to him. He smells of singed flesh and ash – that he could recognize. The stallion was getting too close to him, and he could feel a rumbling in his chest that pounds heavily against his ribcage, his anger threatening to be released the moment this stranger made one wrong move. He gestures to the wound on his shoulder, deep and blistering in the springtime sun, and Maugrim leans away from him slightly. He was not about to give up the space he had so rightly came to find first, but being so near to someone made it feel like his body was on fire.
 
Maugrim’s eyes narrow questioningly, a sharp snort leaving him. The air from his nostrils causes a spray of blood from his injured lips, staining the ground below him. The idea of heat scorching his open and decaying lacerations sent a shiver down his spine, uncertain how this stranger had even come up with this idea in the first place. Maugrim’s dark, nearly pupil less eyes glances at the larger stallion. “I’m fine,” he lies, his voice steely and unbending as he forces words through his clenched teeth and tightened jaw. He could not help but think that this ‘caring’ stranger had impure intentions (which of course he did) in trying to aide him. But the yearling doesn’t move away from the older stallion just yet, knowing that his wounds were only getting worse and the water was helping, but not quickly enough.
 
Behind Maugrim and in front of the large stallion, a spot in the river begins to churn in the opposite direction of the current, stirring unnaturally. The yearling keeps his eyes on the ivory splashed bay, his muscles tense beneath his pearlescent and dark evergreen skin, but his mind focuses carefully on the water – ready and poised.

m a u g r i m.