"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
I awake in our den. Tears create a battle on the rim of my eyes, I look for Mother. She's gone. I thought, letting a few tears go. My soul tugged to leave, but my heart said stay. I looked in the den. She wasn't here. She wouldn't just leave me, right? Its been a week, and no sign of her. She said shed be back. I decide that if she does come back, I would leave her. So I left. Wandering out into the vast fields. All my tears poured forth, like a water fall from a crack in the ice.
Summer is rather forgiving, far more so than the cold of the shadows, the ice of winter that knits to the deepest of your bones. The Gates, in summer is quite a spectacle. The greens of the blades at my feet, are vivid and soft, luscious clover cannon bone deep. I idle, in the heart of the field, my chocolate frame looking a little better than it ever has been. The scars are grey, dark against my skin, but not open, not fleshy and sore. They still hurt, of course they do, but perhaps now it is the memories that burn into my flesh, more so than the wounds themselves.
My bones do not jut at obscure angles, my ribcage has a slight covering and is no longer a xylophone of ivory white bone. the grass in the Gates is palatable and forgiving. the sun, it's glimmering rays beaming down and warming my hide, welcomingly so. I doze a little, eyes closing, drooping my head so that my muzzle hangs just above the clover, my lip drooping.
My peace is disturbed as soon as the lull of serenity takes me. Crying. Sobs. I shake my head, hollowed eyes drawing up alongside my crown, to view the field. There were mingling souls, deep in conversation, and then, I catch the little filly. Her sobs as paramount as my own have been in the past. I shiver, a cold reminder of the sorrow that marred my bones. I steadily make my way over, eyes glistening behind a silver ribbon of forelock. 'You cry.' I say, my voice tentatively slow, gentle, gentle. I pull my ears back, looking about for whatever perpetrator had caused the child to cry. Finding none, I took another step forward. Having Kernick had made instincts rise from within me, a need to protect, a need to serve the weakened ones. But what help can the broken, ruined girl, truly be?
'You cry. No tears. No tears. Shh. Shh.'I offer my muzzle and try and twist a smile. 'The Gates, they are home, they are safe. Yes, yes the Gates. Safe. Safe.' My silvery tresses dance against my chocolate neck as I take a few steps around the blue filly. 'Reuen will help. Reuen will help you.'
I accept her comforting offer. I touch my muzzle to hers. I tell her about mother. I tell her about father before mother. Tell her all my sorrows. All my weeping. About my bed soaked in tears. I felt we had something in common. "Were you abandoned too?"
