There's a long moment where maybe it seems like she is too far gone to understand him, because she only looks at him and blinks so slowly, the effort of lifting her eyelids again wearying. The cold makes her stupid and his words slide past her ears like oil over water, but then there is a hardening around her eye, determination setting her lips into a firm line, and, as if to make a show of her willingness, she takes an urgent step forward, placing her foot too hard and stumbling once again. The filly grunts softly when her knees scrape the frozen ground, and the jostling causes another, shorter, bout of coughing, but she rises and looks back up at him, taking strength from what she perceives as his confidence and not at all catching that moment of concern and insecurity.
If he says they must move, then they must - and she must be able to - because with all the honesty of childhood, she trusts that he would not tell her to do something she that she was not capable of doing. His breath is warm on her neck for a moment, though it fades and leaves a strange cooling sensation when he draws away. She attempts a nicker in response but there is no sound, only hoarse breath and fluttering nostrils, and then she falls dutifully in place beside him, each step strained and slow. Though he and the banked snow block the worst of the wind, even moving does little to warm her, with so little warmth for her sluggish blood to spread, and she must occasionally lean against his broad shoulder or be nudged upright when her feet have misplaced themselves again.
How far they have travelled, and how far they have yet to go, she cannot say. Every step feels like a mile and Beryl falls into a the slow, careful, rhythm of it, through the burning pain of the cold that chaps every inch of her and the ice the weighs down her tail. She cannot feel her ears and worries to herself that perhaps she left them under the pine boughs, but it's too late to turn around and gather them back up. She vaguely wonders if she will ever feel her feet again, but is glad to know that at least they are still there when she glances down at them.
Confused thoughts flicker through her mind and occasionally she forget whose side she walks beside until her brown eyes fall on frosty scales and not a soft, piebald shoulder. It makes her heart lurch, makes her inhale sharply with a sob, and she presses her small muzzle into the hollow space where the stallion's barrel and shoulder meet, seeking comfort in this intimate space while tears track icy streaks down her cheeks.
Still, she follows him unquestioningly, trusting that he is leading her to safety though, she suspects, not back to her mother. He couldn't possibly know the mare or where to find her, and though deep in the dark recesses of her mind she knows that she could maybe, possibly, find her dam again, could ask the shadows to find and take her back, her desire to return is trumped by her fear of stepping into that dark space. Or, perhaps, not of the darkness so much as the strangeness that seems to lie beyond it. Monsters that hunt, oceans that swallow, and the unforgiving winds of this last place that she landed. Where might she end up, if she went in again? What might she find waiting for her when she found the light again?
She shudders, but not from cold, this time, and the shadow of an ice-glazed rock along their path opens it's yellow eyes. It reaches out, pulls away from the thing that cast it to twist up one golden foreleg like a dusky snake climbing a tree, then lingers there in silence. Beryl does not seem to notice but presses on, hoping that, soon, the stallion - her savior, really - will tell her that it is time to rest.
If he says they must move, then they must - and she must be able to - because with all the honesty of childhood, she trusts that he would not tell her to do something she that she was not capable of doing. His breath is warm on her neck for a moment, though it fades and leaves a strange cooling sensation when he draws away. She attempts a nicker in response but there is no sound, only hoarse breath and fluttering nostrils, and then she falls dutifully in place beside him, each step strained and slow. Though he and the banked snow block the worst of the wind, even moving does little to warm her, with so little warmth for her sluggish blood to spread, and she must occasionally lean against his broad shoulder or be nudged upright when her feet have misplaced themselves again.
How far they have travelled, and how far they have yet to go, she cannot say. Every step feels like a mile and Beryl falls into a the slow, careful, rhythm of it, through the burning pain of the cold that chaps every inch of her and the ice the weighs down her tail. She cannot feel her ears and worries to herself that perhaps she left them under the pine boughs, but it's too late to turn around and gather them back up. She vaguely wonders if she will ever feel her feet again, but is glad to know that at least they are still there when she glances down at them.
Confused thoughts flicker through her mind and occasionally she forget whose side she walks beside until her brown eyes fall on frosty scales and not a soft, piebald shoulder. It makes her heart lurch, makes her inhale sharply with a sob, and she presses her small muzzle into the hollow space where the stallion's barrel and shoulder meet, seeking comfort in this intimate space while tears track icy streaks down her cheeks.
Still, she follows him unquestioningly, trusting that he is leading her to safety though, she suspects, not back to her mother. He couldn't possibly know the mare or where to find her, and though deep in the dark recesses of her mind she knows that she could maybe, possibly, find her dam again, could ask the shadows to find and take her back, her desire to return is trumped by her fear of stepping into that dark space. Or, perhaps, not of the darkness so much as the strangeness that seems to lie beyond it. Monsters that hunt, oceans that swallow, and the unforgiving winds of this last place that she landed. Where might she end up, if she went in again? What might she find waiting for her when she found the light again?
She shudders, but not from cold, this time, and the shadow of an ice-glazed rock along their path opens it's yellow eyes. It reaches out, pulls away from the thing that cast it to twist up one golden foreleg like a dusky snake climbing a tree, then lingers there in silence. Beryl does not seem to notice but presses on, hoping that, soon, the stallion - her savior, really - will tell her that it is time to rest.
Beryl
Litotes x Mehendi
@[Leilan]