12-16-2020, 11:10 AM
In the days since Andromache reached this strange place, the feeling that persists is one of dreamland. As a foal she learned the art of lucid dreaming, had been taught it by her sister. She feels that way now, moving her body lankly through fields of green clover. This would be a nice place to stay, she thinks. This would be a nice place to disappear into. Alone with her thoughts, she imagines horses who are no longer there; those who have long since passed beyond the vale of death. Sometimes it is deliberate and sometimes they come for her without consent.
Andromache wakes with the sun. Slowly it slides over her hide, up over her withers towards her eyes. The world is soft and blueish-grey, the clover at her feet still dewy. As she bows her head to eat they are sweet like nectar. Although it should bring her pleasure, it doesn't. Just beyond she could see one of the many creeks that dotted the terrain; cold places where she could shock herself if she needed.
Today was a grief day, she decided. When pain was one such as hers, you couldn't let it overbear you. Instead, you shoved your pain to certain days. But it was important to feel.
At the corner of her vision she sees a filly in the distance. It strikes Andromache that the creature looks how she herself feels; small, shrinking from attention. Her skin is like shadow, like snow-capped crests; and yet it does nothing to camouflage her against the green grasses. She is alone, like Andromache is, and seems to be disturbed by something in her little mind. Andromache's ear twitches backwards as she thinks of another filly she once knew, a spindly grey yearling who had been her herdmate as a child.
Mother, the word comes to her, and it sticks like barley at the back of her throat. She shakes the thought away and takes a hold of that maternal instinct that has so long been unhumoured, before making her way down through the grasses towards the child. The bay mare's coat is thin, her mane haggard and scorched. The only thing that could strike her as anything of note is the posture with which she walks, the muscles of her neck bunching and folding like paper. Before she knows it, she is standing before the filly.
"Are you okay?" she asks over the field, "Are you lost?" Her voice is soft, warm, and mature. It is a leader's voice; a politician's voice.
Andromache wakes with the sun. Slowly it slides over her hide, up over her withers towards her eyes. The world is soft and blueish-grey, the clover at her feet still dewy. As she bows her head to eat they are sweet like nectar. Although it should bring her pleasure, it doesn't. Just beyond she could see one of the many creeks that dotted the terrain; cold places where she could shock herself if she needed.
Today was a grief day, she decided. When pain was one such as hers, you couldn't let it overbear you. Instead, you shoved your pain to certain days. But it was important to feel.
At the corner of her vision she sees a filly in the distance. It strikes Andromache that the creature looks how she herself feels; small, shrinking from attention. Her skin is like shadow, like snow-capped crests; and yet it does nothing to camouflage her against the green grasses. She is alone, like Andromache is, and seems to be disturbed by something in her little mind. Andromache's ear twitches backwards as she thinks of another filly she once knew, a spindly grey yearling who had been her herdmate as a child.
Mother, the word comes to her, and it sticks like barley at the back of her throat. She shakes the thought away and takes a hold of that maternal instinct that has so long been unhumoured, before making her way down through the grasses towards the child. The bay mare's coat is thin, her mane haggard and scorched. The only thing that could strike her as anything of note is the posture with which she walks, the muscles of her neck bunching and folding like paper. Before she knows it, she is standing before the filly.
"Are you okay?" she asks over the field, "Are you lost?" Her voice is soft, warm, and mature. It is a leader's voice; a politician's voice.