the firestarters always get the burns
and the good guys never get the girl
This evening, this night - it is the strangest one in the field for some time, now - not that she’s complaining, but something to notice, something that couldn’t escape her. She hums a bit when she recieves an answer - the black mare knows these stallions, her uncle and grandfather, she says. Their names are nothing to her, having come here from the outside world, only dealing with the politics of the here and now. Some kind of rough play, then, between this mare and her family, though why they’d leave her here on the grass as soon as anyone approached to see if she was alright was beyond the white mare.
The buckskin stallion, magnus, he tries to work in some normalcy into the situation. While she appreciates the idea and gesture, she is not quite sure if it fits the mare. Salomea, she had said. Ilma dipped her head in greeting, and flicked her tail, annoyed by the whole ordeal more than she would on other days would have let on. She hears Magnus saying that not many horses are in the field at night - herself, she had simply been too late to return by lack of wings, yesterday, today, she wasn’t sure what to call it - but now she studies him, wondering if he had run further this evening, and whereto then. ”Not many,” she agrees, ”but quite enough.” That being an understatement - she had the feeling they were one, two, too many. ”You both look like you lack in sleep.” she observes softly, looking from the black mare to the buckskin stallion, and back.
He is right to ask if Salomea wants help - but somehow Ilma doesn’t think she needs to ask. She needs help, a change of life, get a life for herself instead of clinging to a family that seems to mistreat her, exhaust her. But there’s the big question.
”But do you want any help at all?”