Childhood again, in a place most unfamiliar - he plays pretend, stumbling amidst rocks and caverns. Green on blue and yellow, too, a boy from an old man's body born. Old skin shed. New skin cold. Winter here cuts through his light pelt; not yet a year's journey felt. New and not all at once, a kind of soul tossed and trussed, son of the daughter of a queen of old, yet none to any who might now behold.
The snow outside beckons him stay indoors, where night-black waters lap the shore, far below the cavern roof, northmost point of Pangea's roost. From where he nests (for indeed, he nests) he can see the sky, glinting white and pregnant nigh. A shudder runs through him; it's quite the sight. He exerts a will most inherent to his being and grows more plants with all his might. They curl around him, weak and shivering; not even the colt's magic can stop them from withering.
And then all of a sudden, something new! He lifts his shapely head and squints, forelock askew. A figure moving closer in the distance, hardly visible--yet even a mirage could be his subsistence. With a pluck of bravery from a life now past, Limb releases a shrill whinny, a plaintive ask: Come closer, says the cry, carrying far on the cold-cold night. I am newly lost in world I used to know. And he sits, waiting, watching the figure move closer through the snow.
The snow outside beckons him stay indoors, where night-black waters lap the shore, far below the cavern roof, northmost point of Pangea's roost. From where he nests (for indeed, he nests) he can see the sky, glinting white and pregnant nigh. A shudder runs through him; it's quite the sight. He exerts a will most inherent to his being and grows more plants with all his might. They curl around him, weak and shivering; not even the colt's magic can stop them from withering.
And then all of a sudden, something new! He lifts his shapely head and squints, forelock askew. A figure moving closer in the distance, hardly visible--yet even a mirage could be his subsistence. With a pluck of bravery from a life now past, Limb releases a shrill whinny, a plaintive ask: Come closer, says the cry, carrying far on the cold-cold night. I am newly lost in world I used to know. And he sits, waiting, watching the figure move closer through the snow.