i am weeping shades of indigo
Freedom does not grace all souls the way it undeniably should. It is withheld and denied, it is teased and taunted. It lingers like fog in the back of your eyes and sticks like sap on your skin. It plays games, it hides like a shy child when strangers come calling.
Doctor hears the word and wonders if he’s ever known its meaning.
He knows it is fought for, it is taken and it is cherished, but its true definition seems lost to time itself. At the very least, he knows its opposites - servitude, imprisonment, captivity. These things he has felt before, lashed and bound both mentally and physically. Even now, he wonders why he’s been left to roam when he could, at the very whim of his magician mother’s will, be forced to return to the depths of this world.
Memories of war, of fighting and hatred, fury and anguish plague his mind like a cancer. Too often his thoughts swirl with the crimson hues of it, a violent cacophony. Anadil still enjoys plucking his strings from time to time with ghostly whispers in his mind, distinct nudges to encourage the houndish strife that seems only natural in his bitter heart.
But not today. His thoughts are his own and he stands alone in the Meadow. To others, it may seem as if he is lost in reverie, watching the world pass by in the midst of a sunny day, but truthfully he is scrutinizing every face he sees.
There are not many, but there are some.
Then there is one.
The painted stallion with his crest and haunch licked by delightful flame (Doctor’s own throat burns; a vague glimmer of firelight touches at his muzzle when he snorts softly). The smoke is familiar, unnervingly so, and the ruddy dun takes it as an invitation.
Then there are two.
The pink mare joins the paint and the glint of her delicate wings catches Doctor’s eye. She is dainty and soft; she does not seem suited for the world as he knows it. She is fair and lovely and far too sweet a treat for the perils of Beqanna. A smile touches his face, baleful and grim.
Now there are three.
He joins them casually, as if he is meant to be there, and stops near the mare with a faint exhale of smoke and ash. “Freedom is a thing easily promised,” he observes with a raspy voice, as if his lungs are charred. “How would you plan to deliver such an elusive prize?” He is genuinely curious, ears perked in interest while, subconsciously, he hopes the distant magician is not listening in to this particular interaction.
Doctor
@Çevik @kalika