11-06-2015, 01:16 AM
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
He is tired beyond measure, bloody and broken by trials no horse should have to endure. He does not even notice at first when she comes, when she releases him from his torment. He cannot even bring himself to care, not until he lands in a crumpled heap upon the lushly green spring grass of the meadow.
At first he thinks that this must be another one of her tricks, an attempt to jolt him into complying with her demands. But as the mire in his mind slowly clears, he realizes he is back in a familiar form, back in his own body. For a long moment he can only stare at the long black legs resting in a rather awkward fashion before him. And then it hits him that he is back, that his large, well defined body is his own pewter and black, with four legs instead of two, and the incongruous lack of tail to set off the whole, crumpled picture.
He doesn’t rise immediately. He is too exhausted. And though he is no longer covered in blood, though tear tracks no longer stain his cheeks, he still feels as though he is. The memories are too recent, too fresh.
And then, as though a wrecking ball has come from the sky to wallop him in the belly, the truth of his actions hits him. He scrambles to his feet, nearly falling flat on his face as he attempts to readjust to a different body. He glances wildly around, brown eyes wide and feral.
He remembers. Oh god, he remembers all too well. The blood and the death. The death he had caused, had delivered so willingly and mercilessly. A low, keening sound escapes him as he scrambles backwards, not stopping until he rams heavily into a large tree. Tears fall unbidden from his eyes, etching new tracks on his cheeks. He does not notice, nor does he care. The terrible guilt is overwhelming, too much to bear in the face of so many wretched memories.
And in his blind grief, he does not notice the way the shadows have begun writhe, crawling to him, snaking up his legs and caressing his belly as a lover might. He does not notice the way in which they react to the storm of emotions pouring through him, coming forward in his unwitting plea for aid.
At first he thinks that this must be another one of her tricks, an attempt to jolt him into complying with her demands. But as the mire in his mind slowly clears, he realizes he is back in a familiar form, back in his own body. For a long moment he can only stare at the long black legs resting in a rather awkward fashion before him. And then it hits him that he is back, that his large, well defined body is his own pewter and black, with four legs instead of two, and the incongruous lack of tail to set off the whole, crumpled picture.
He doesn’t rise immediately. He is too exhausted. And though he is no longer covered in blood, though tear tracks no longer stain his cheeks, he still feels as though he is. The memories are too recent, too fresh.
And then, as though a wrecking ball has come from the sky to wallop him in the belly, the truth of his actions hits him. He scrambles to his feet, nearly falling flat on his face as he attempts to readjust to a different body. He glances wildly around, brown eyes wide and feral.
He remembers. Oh god, he remembers all too well. The blood and the death. The death he had caused, had delivered so willingly and mercilessly. A low, keening sound escapes him as he scrambles backwards, not stopping until he rams heavily into a large tree. Tears fall unbidden from his eyes, etching new tracks on his cheeks. He does not notice, nor does he care. The terrible guilt is overwhelming, too much to bear in the face of so many wretched memories.
And in his blind grief, he does not notice the way the shadows have begun writhe, crawling to him, snaking up his legs and caressing his belly as a lover might. He does not notice the way in which they react to the storm of emotions pouring through him, coming forward in his unwitting plea for aid.
shahrizai
hestoni x scorch