Foster

"We are only as blind as we want to be"

The blood had finally dried on top of his dark coat, matted within his mane and his tail like the mud that had been stuck to him not long ago. The wound had blinded him, just like the memory, yet still the stallion walked on. The blood had been sliding down his muzzle like rain, leaving a sticky residue upon his black coat, yet now, the thick, coarse mane stuck to his face, hiding the cloudy eye from sight. It was almost as if it were hiding him from what was bound to come, like an omen of sorts, yet still, he marched on. Even with the impending blind eye and the blood on his coat, Foster had never been a fighter, within his herd, he had grown as a nice soul, caring for one another and treating everyone equally, yet with the current breeding season, tensions rose to the forefront. He wasn't cut out for his herd, not when the stallions fought like brutes and treated the mares as property. The testosterone was too much, too overbearing within his herd. And where there were mares, there was always violence. His wound was not only a symbol of which a fight had broken out, but rather a symbol of how close a brooding stallion had gotten to him. It was a stranger, no less; an intruder within his herd that had come into their land. Anger lashed out as his kind soul tried to defend them, yet to no avail. 

I was not worthy.

 He had become ashamed of himself, forgotten within the herd like the previous pasture they had traveled through. With his large, intimidating size, the Shire should have been able to defend his herd, his family. Yet his heart got the best of him, his footing was clumsy, and he was forgotten. It was evident he was not worthy enough to be with them. His strength had been frozen into nothing in that moment between taking another's life. He wasn't his father. He wasn't a monster. He was a gentle giant. He was Foster. I am me.

He attempted to raise his spirits, raising his head in a confident stance, his mane blowing around him with oncoming autumn breeze. The only thing that refused to move, was the omen resting upon the left side of his face. Over his journey, he had learned to ignore the pain, keeping his mind off of the throbbing eye with the thoughts of all he had done wrong. The pain was the last thing on his mind, as he was now what one would call, an outcast. He wasn't made for his herd any longer. Maybe he wasn't made for any herd. He had failed one, what was to ensure that he didn't fail another, yet he was trying. Even as he walked, he attempted to move with a more dominant stance, yet the large stallion stepped over fallen logs, stepped over the flowers that were beginning to die. Even with his large feet, he managed to maneuver so he crushed nothing except the leaves that were beginning to fall. His loyalty was so strong. So very strong. Yet if it came between killing another or deserting everything he knew to save a life, he would have to take the latter. He was built for violence, though. He knew this. His father had tried to shape a stallion to be feared along with all of his half-brothers, a stallion that the mares could not say no to, but he was a disgrace. His eyes were kind, his personality even kinder, but kind wasn't what made a herd. It wasn't what made them strong. 

So he continued to walk in a fluid motion. If he never stopped walking, he would be fine with that.  If his eye never stopped throbbing, he would be fine with that. If he was given the chance to make a new home, he would be fine with that. Yet it wasn't in his interest any longer. He would let fate decide, even as he walked on with the facade of confidence into the Field of destiny. 

I just hope the blood doesn't stray strangers away.

With that thought, the gentle giant walked on.