I love the way that your heart breaks; any

[Pollock]

Enter again the sweet forest
     Enter the hot dream
       Come with us

Pollock likes monsters. Though he finds this one repulsive, he can see as he gets closer, stepping into the gurgling, turbid water, that the stallion is not death warmed over but life imitating. Somehow, despite the way he seems to invite death and decay—infection into that thickened, bald skin—somehow he lives.

Pollock like perseverance.
—he likes ugliness.

He considers him, wading through the shallow water to reach the bank Raelynx stands on, with flat, dark eyes. He wonders what made him this way—what reason that craftsman had for searing him; Pollock is a cruder artist, thought he puts what he has to good use, he imagines this man’s maker is a master, indeed—God or horse. (His eyes pass over the mark on his forehead, and he wonders.) 

He comes to a stop far enough away to keep that primal baying at ease.
He is large. More powerful than he looks from afar…

“Hmm,” he makes a low, gravelly, contemplative sound in his throat.

He does not blame him for the offense of not knowing his name, “Pollock.” The gift-giver has spent most of his life in the shadows—would prefer it there to this day if the crown weren’t so shiny. Figuratively. “Carnage is gone, if you have not already heard. He left a long time ago. I am the beneficiary of his throne.”

He shifts his weight and licks his dry lips, “welcome home, Raelynx.” That hard, low voice holds no measure of welcome, thought, truly, he happy to see any of the sons and daughters return to the fold. Pangea only benefits when her belly is full. 

“You do intend to stay?”

the gift-giver