05-26-2016, 01:10 PM
i'll keep you like an oath
There in the heart of that frozen forest, time had seemed to slow, to still - its passage marked only by exhalations from stallion and filly both, misted breath rising into the air like dragon smoke. And slowly, ever-so-slowly, did that filly turn toward the grey wraith, letting him spy her in full for the first time by the silvered light piercing through the skeletal canopy overhead. The delicate arc of her neck, the swivel of her ears, the evanescent sheen of her eyes as she gazed upon him.
With mahogany matched against those milky blue, the stud seemed content with simply standing, watching, waiting, motionless in his observation save for the swell and ebb of his broad form with each inhale and subsequent exhale, his ribs etched like feathers just beneath his dappled pelt, so easily visible in this season of scarcity. I am. Those words seeped soft yet sure through the frigid night air and Azael flicked his ebon-touched ears forward so as to catch them. I am. The truth of the filly's world.
A necessary truth, for such was the way of the world. Only the strong could survive. Only the worthy could thrive. And there was hardly any use in coddling the young. A coddled youth was a weak youth. Useless. Worthless.
Inhale. Exhale. The wraith expelled his breath on a subtle sigh even as his right ear flicked backward and then forward again - a quick motion, like the flutter of a moth's wings. Ever watchful, ever wary, scanning the forest in that quick flick for any sounds that might mark another's approach.
And then the filly spoke again. You are. Those twin notes, so soft and yet firm as they rang out into the dark stillness of the night, as they lingered between the two. A demand? A plea?
As the first flecks of snow began to drift downward upon the scene, peppering his dappled coat with a frigid kiss of white, the stallion lifted his head once more, rising to his full height of a little over sixteen hands. And from this lofty vantage, he continued to gaze down upon the youth, his eyes flat, his demeanor cool. You are, she had said, so sure. A seer uttering the words of a prophecy yet to be realized.
A prophecy which was sealed with her next utterance, that of her own name. Oricle.
In those moments, time ceased to pass for Azael. In those moments, there was nothing, nothing save for the bay roan, nothing save for her soft words. Nothing, nothing. And yet time continued for the rest of the world; the snow continued to fall, dusting the forest with a gentle flurry, a ghostly touch. Such went unnoticed by the usually attentive stud. Such went unseen.
"I am," finally came his reply, heavy with the weight of responsibility as it passed from his lips. A pause, then. A searching glance. And finally, a belated introduction. "Azael." Those three syllables rang out, smooth in his velvet baritone, crisp in the chill of the season. The name of one of the fallen. A fitting name for the only son of his sire born without the gift of wings.
Or so his dam had thought. Shameful, she had whispered over her son, born to be painfully ordinary. Defective. But such memories were mere cobwebs now, left to rot in the recesses of his subconscious mind.
Now there was only the present. The future. But the former would suffice for the moment. Slowly did the Andalusian's head lower; purposefully was his warm breath expelled in the filly's direction. And then, a step, that single obsidian hoof crunching through the frozen crust of the earth beneath him. And then another step. Slow. Gentle. Yet deliberate. As though the scarred brute was well aware of the delicacy of this moment, so like the tremulous existence of a piece of glass. As though he was wary of shattering it completely.
Step-by-step, he ate away at the distance between himself and the child named Oricle until there was nothing but a half a length left between their forms. And there he halted. And there he stayed. And there he caught the faint hint of a whisper from the lips of the filly, though her turned head kept the male from truly hearing what was said. Pricked ears marked his acknowledgement of that whisper, nothing more. No questions were asked. No demands were made. For now, there was simply more silence.
For now, there was simply more waiting.
With mahogany matched against those milky blue, the stud seemed content with simply standing, watching, waiting, motionless in his observation save for the swell and ebb of his broad form with each inhale and subsequent exhale, his ribs etched like feathers just beneath his dappled pelt, so easily visible in this season of scarcity. I am. Those words seeped soft yet sure through the frigid night air and Azael flicked his ebon-touched ears forward so as to catch them. I am. The truth of the filly's world.
A necessary truth, for such was the way of the world. Only the strong could survive. Only the worthy could thrive. And there was hardly any use in coddling the young. A coddled youth was a weak youth. Useless. Worthless.
Inhale. Exhale. The wraith expelled his breath on a subtle sigh even as his right ear flicked backward and then forward again - a quick motion, like the flutter of a moth's wings. Ever watchful, ever wary, scanning the forest in that quick flick for any sounds that might mark another's approach.
And then the filly spoke again. You are. Those twin notes, so soft and yet firm as they rang out into the dark stillness of the night, as they lingered between the two. A demand? A plea?
As the first flecks of snow began to drift downward upon the scene, peppering his dappled coat with a frigid kiss of white, the stallion lifted his head once more, rising to his full height of a little over sixteen hands. And from this lofty vantage, he continued to gaze down upon the youth, his eyes flat, his demeanor cool. You are, she had said, so sure. A seer uttering the words of a prophecy yet to be realized.
A prophecy which was sealed with her next utterance, that of her own name. Oricle.
In those moments, time ceased to pass for Azael. In those moments, there was nothing, nothing save for the bay roan, nothing save for her soft words. Nothing, nothing. And yet time continued for the rest of the world; the snow continued to fall, dusting the forest with a gentle flurry, a ghostly touch. Such went unnoticed by the usually attentive stud. Such went unseen.
"I am," finally came his reply, heavy with the weight of responsibility as it passed from his lips. A pause, then. A searching glance. And finally, a belated introduction. "Azael." Those three syllables rang out, smooth in his velvet baritone, crisp in the chill of the season. The name of one of the fallen. A fitting name for the only son of his sire born without the gift of wings.
Or so his dam had thought. Shameful, she had whispered over her son, born to be painfully ordinary. Defective. But such memories were mere cobwebs now, left to rot in the recesses of his subconscious mind.
Now there was only the present. The future. But the former would suffice for the moment. Slowly did the Andalusian's head lower; purposefully was his warm breath expelled in the filly's direction. And then, a step, that single obsidian hoof crunching through the frozen crust of the earth beneath him. And then another step. Slow. Gentle. Yet deliberate. As though the scarred brute was well aware of the delicacy of this moment, so like the tremulous existence of a piece of glass. As though he was wary of shattering it completely.
Step-by-step, he ate away at the distance between himself and the child named Oricle until there was nothing but a half a length left between their forms. And there he halted. And there he stayed. And there he caught the faint hint of a whisper from the lips of the filly, though her turned head kept the male from truly hearing what was said. Pricked ears marked his acknowledgement of that whisper, nothing more. No questions were asked. No demands were made. For now, there was simply more silence.
For now, there was simply more waiting.
Azael