From my breast the cold heart taking,
Give it to Belerma's care
I was born white, like milk. Like poppy seeds crushed flat and drained. Innocent. Pure.
That never lasts long.
My first memories are of being alone. There was no one to herald my coming in this dark, tainted world, nor anyone to to explain why some days I was green, or pink, or a lovely shade of blue. The other foals had no interest in me, or I in them (what good is friendship if one day you should simply die, or be taken away?) and the creatures of the earth could not speak my language, so I was alone. It never bothered me so much, that heavy weight no child should ever bear, except when the milk-mare came to feed us lost souls.
I called her that because she came when the hunger was too much for all of us, her two rows of heavy udders stretching from hips to breast and swinging low as she walked. The strange mare never spoke to us, or comforted us, but she had purpose and meaning and so, in a way, she became a mother to us all. It was only when she left that the empty, cruel feeling of my abandonment settled in again, turning my coat to a sullen shade of grey.
The days passed.
I could leave. I’d seen others do it - the older ones. Where they went was a mystery to me; my world consisted of these small corners in the den. Half of my mind was elated by the idea - to spread my clear wings and soar above them all, laughing! Yet the other half was not so convinced - death awaited those who left and, besides that inevitable end, those glass-clear feathers on my back could do little more than flex.
So I remained. To wait for a savior, or to save myself.
Rey
