Crevan
We forget all the names that we used to know
Crevan turns on him, the poor newcomer. Swings his head in a cracking arc back to where the stallion has approached him from his blindside and peels his lips back into a feral snarl, squared teeth flashing now as white fangs and molars. His equine ears are pressed firmly against his neck and the mostly-horse backs swiftly away, every line of muscle and sinew tensed for battle.
In almost the same manner of time he stops himself. “God, Crevan!” He chides internally as the teeth fade back to normalcy and his breathing steadies, sweat trickling over the undulating valleys of his shoulders, ribs, belly. “You’re fine, you’re fine …” The mantra continues, easing into soft tremors of some partially forgotten post-traumatic ordeal. The colt swallows and blinks, swallows again and shakes his head before letting it fall limply towards the earth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to … you know …” He supplies, finding the words still hard to come by as the haze of his sleep continues to clear.
“I didn’t mean to freak out.” He says, exhaling deeply with the weight of safety now cocooning him. “You startled me, is all. One second I was somewhere else and now I’m -” He stops, hardened navy eyes rising to meet the single, incredulous hazel one staring back. “Nevermind.” He huffs. “It doesn’t really matter.” The sandy-colored boy surmises. Crevan glances around them, finding that in the brevity of his reaction no one else had been stirred to turn their attention to the two, so he still has ample time to scrap together the semblance of normality.
“This is Beqanna, right?” He begins, turning his head back to where the hollow-eyed horse waits. “Taiga still stands, doesn’t she?”
Then our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow