he laid low the warriors of old
He dreams the same dream every night.
It starts the same way always. He dreams of a cold, wintry day. He is somewhere in the dark shadows of the forest that is just at the edge of the meadow. There is a soft breeze, cold and harsh, and he shivers severely as the wind crawls up his spine. He knows, even as a young colt and now in this dream, that he is in no physical condition to be in this place—he belonged back in the sandy dunes, where the sun was warm and kind to him.
But he is here, in the dream world, dreaming the same dream (always and every night since then).
He is drawn to the sight of a small flower in the blanket of snow. It’s peculiar, especially in the time of winter. He doesn’t understand why there is a flower growing in the dead of winter—still this idea of a flower growing puzzles him. He dreams the feeling of confusion, the same feelings he felt during that time, at the statement his mother had told him once that flowers die in the winter and in the spring they grow back. Then the flower had come alive – he had been so amazed by it. The rush of excitement pumps through his body when he dreams this dream. And then there are vines, latching – he feels surprised and afraid – but then the vines start to tickle him – he laughs out loud during this moment when he sleeps.
The next part he knows, so very well, the anticipation grows so heavily in his heart at this moment.
Eight appears, and their conversation and scene are played over and over. He knows the words, the next step in the storyline. Eventually, the part he hates the most, comes to play next. The dark bay stallion pulls into the thick trees, he runs after the stallion as fast as he could (and he is quite agile considering what he is), but it wasn’t enough, it never was every time he dreams this dream. He loses the bay stallion in the cold wintry forest, and Eight is simply gone—nonexistent in this world it truly feels now.
Still to this day, he doesn’t know why he dreams the same dream every night. It has begun to tear him apart, the unknowing of what and why it always must be that dream. There seems to be no secret or hidden lesson in the dream itself either—Rome knows this because he thinks about the memory and the dream all the time. He cannot figure it out, and truthfully, he may never know the answer to it.
This dream will forever haunt him.
It haunts him right now as he stands in the meadow—recently coming down from the mountain and feeling completely lost for what he is. He is no longer the small ocelot horse (though he is still small and young) that had the cat like features and endurance that was far better than any other horses he knew. Instead, he woke up with a pair of wings. He isn’t sure how he got them, and doesn’t hate them entirely since he had always liked his mother’s wings. But everything right now seems out of order, almost chaotic like—the old kingdoms and herds are gone, except for the common lands.
Uncertain of what to do, or where to go, he stands idly in the middle of the meadow. He becomes lost in his thoughts—mixed thoughts about the dream and in the new place that somehow is still called Beqanna—as he forgets the world around him. But when his name is called out in the silence, the familiar voice alive and so vivid, pulls him away from his self-analyzing of what has happened. His eyes widen in surprise and excitement all at once at the sight of the familiar dark bay. “Eight?” He says in a deeper voice, though still childish (but he is almost a full grown adult now). “The woods?” He asks, confused and dazed by the very event happening before him. He shakes his head, trying to get ahold of himself. “I did make it out,” he says returning his nutmeg eyes to him, “but you weren’t there.” The statement is said with a sad and disappointed voice.
It starts the same way always. He dreams of a cold, wintry day. He is somewhere in the dark shadows of the forest that is just at the edge of the meadow. There is a soft breeze, cold and harsh, and he shivers severely as the wind crawls up his spine. He knows, even as a young colt and now in this dream, that he is in no physical condition to be in this place—he belonged back in the sandy dunes, where the sun was warm and kind to him.
But he is here, in the dream world, dreaming the same dream (always and every night since then).
He is drawn to the sight of a small flower in the blanket of snow. It’s peculiar, especially in the time of winter. He doesn’t understand why there is a flower growing in the dead of winter—still this idea of a flower growing puzzles him. He dreams the feeling of confusion, the same feelings he felt during that time, at the statement his mother had told him once that flowers die in the winter and in the spring they grow back. Then the flower had come alive – he had been so amazed by it. The rush of excitement pumps through his body when he dreams this dream. And then there are vines, latching – he feels surprised and afraid – but then the vines start to tickle him – he laughs out loud during this moment when he sleeps.
The next part he knows, so very well, the anticipation grows so heavily in his heart at this moment.
Eight appears, and their conversation and scene are played over and over. He knows the words, the next step in the storyline. Eventually, the part he hates the most, comes to play next. The dark bay stallion pulls into the thick trees, he runs after the stallion as fast as he could (and he is quite agile considering what he is), but it wasn’t enough, it never was every time he dreams this dream. He loses the bay stallion in the cold wintry forest, and Eight is simply gone—nonexistent in this world it truly feels now.
Still to this day, he doesn’t know why he dreams the same dream every night. It has begun to tear him apart, the unknowing of what and why it always must be that dream. There seems to be no secret or hidden lesson in the dream itself either—Rome knows this because he thinks about the memory and the dream all the time. He cannot figure it out, and truthfully, he may never know the answer to it.
This dream will forever haunt him.
It haunts him right now as he stands in the meadow—recently coming down from the mountain and feeling completely lost for what he is. He is no longer the small ocelot horse (though he is still small and young) that had the cat like features and endurance that was far better than any other horses he knew. Instead, he woke up with a pair of wings. He isn’t sure how he got them, and doesn’t hate them entirely since he had always liked his mother’s wings. But everything right now seems out of order, almost chaotic like—the old kingdoms and herds are gone, except for the common lands.
Uncertain of what to do, or where to go, he stands idly in the middle of the meadow. He becomes lost in his thoughts—mixed thoughts about the dream and in the new place that somehow is still called Beqanna—as he forgets the world around him. But when his name is called out in the silence, the familiar voice alive and so vivid, pulls him away from his self-analyzing of what has happened. His eyes widen in surprise and excitement all at once at the sight of the familiar dark bay. “Eight?” He says in a deeper voice, though still childish (but he is almost a full grown adult now). “The woods?” He asks, confused and dazed by the very event happening before him. He shakes his head, trying to get ahold of himself. “I did make it out,” he says returning his nutmeg eyes to him, “but you weren’t there.” The statement is said with a sad and disappointed voice.
ROME
tarnished x lucrezia