When you're blind, you can still see.
My eyes catch the hint of difference between light and dark. My body knows when the sun is up and the sky is full of stars. My nose can tell if a mushroom is poisonous or if there is another creature nearby. My lips can taste the change in the air like an electric hum. My ears are my best tools of all. With them I can catch the subtle variance in the wings of a fly or the wings of a moth. I don't know if it is blindness that makes my senses so sensitive, having nothing to compare them with, or if it simply that I pay more attention to the world around me.
My continued existed depends on my curiosity. I can never let my guard down because the landscape is always changing. Even with the best of ears I can still crash and fall, and nature doesn't care that I wasn't given a complete set of senses.
I am told I am moss green, a soft, earthy tone that blends in with late summer foliage. I do not know, but it doesn't much matter to me. Life isn't about appearances. After all, you'd have an awfully hard time fooling me with looks. My hair hangs in darker green wisps, tending to curls in some places. It would be hard to tell what my lineage is, but my best guess is something stocky and average sized like a mustang. I feel strength in my body, despite the lack of sight that I would need to pull into a full on gallop.
I ache for that sometimes, to feel the wind tearing through my mane and the ground being gobbled up by my hungry hooves. It would be foolish.
I find my way to the field by scent and sound. Spring has brought out an array of horses to the meadow. I am looking for a friend, perhaps, or something more. A place to belong. A cliche is a cliche for a reason, I suppose.
Damaged horses aren't immune to longings, although I have met many who thought so. As if my blindness makes me lesser, not fully sentient.
I sigh, for the sake of making noise and lift my nose to scent the wind. I move carefully, occasionally dropping my head to grab a bite or cocking an ear to figure out how close I might be to a rustling tree. It's embarrassing, really, how many trees I've hit in my life. It really shouldn't happen considering I have seven summers under me, and nearly as many children, but I get distracted following a smell or a sound that intrigues me.
Maybe I will find a home I can learn well enough that I will be able to run within its borders. I grin a little at that, imagining the sight I would make when I inevitably tumbled head over heels. I might as well have wings as gallop.
Shapes of black and white and in between pass over my vision, but none approach me yet, and so I wait contentedly, enjoying the warm breezes after a difficult winter.
SASKYA
there is beauty in the darkness
 Oft in the woods is a listener nigh
He's never been to the Meadow before. Never been anywhere other than the Jungle and the Tundra, to be honest, and encountering the crowds of horses frequenting the Meadow makes Yronwood feel like a backwoods country bumpkin. It's rather overwhelming to him, and this quickly leds to the spotted boy wondering if venturing here had not been one of his better ideas. After a moment, however, he manages to gather up his resolve and stay put. He was a brother of the Tundra now; was he going to let something like this send him running back home with his tail between his legs? Shame himself and his family? No, he was not, he silently pledges, and accordingly marches on along the trail, each hoof set down firmly.
His green eyes are at work as well, drifting from horse to horse in search of a conversation, but all the equines he gazes upon seem to be occupied with each other or look back at him in such a way that it is clear they are not inclined for speech with him. Perhaps those ones are waiting for someone in particular; a friend or relative. Whatever the reason, he accepts this and moves on. Until that is, he spots her. A mare, green from nose to tail, standing alone and gazing at seemingly nothing in particular. He pauses curiously, intrigued by her unusual color and the sudden realization that she may actually *be* staring at nothing, that she might be blind.
The young stallion decides to approach her, and unsure if she is completely blind or merely limited of vision, takes the courtesy to do so from a direction that would help her to catch scent of him in the wind more easily. Roe comes to a stop a few feet away from her, nickering a friendly greeting. "Good afternoon, my name's Yronwood, of the Tundra. Mind if I share your little corner of the Meadow for a bit? I find the endless crowds a bit daunting, to be honest. It's much quieter here. " Chuckling a little at his own words, he lowers his chestnut head to the ground, grabbing a mouthful of grass to munch upon while awaiting her answer.
name evil whisperings go here my dear
The world is not a sunshiney place and it didn't take me long to figure that out. Thankfully my blindness precluded me from accepting the standard pair of rose colored glasses. I'm not saying I am happy with the way the world is. I'm not. I wish it were different. In a perfect world I could see. I've simply accepted that there is no alternative to the reality I am living in.
Though, there are still mornings when I wake and I feel a rage fueled longing to be able to see, just once. What others take for granted I would give years of my life to attain for just a fragment of time. But I know the truth, and I know the world, and sight will never be mine.
Oh, but there can still be beauty.
Did you know that the blind dream in color? Or at least, I do. For even with my eyes darkened, sparkles of colored lights flash across my vision. I don't know their names (how can I? What reference do I have?) but they are heated and bright, demanding attention. At night they soften and shimmer.
I knew a girl once who couldn't speak. She was my eyes and I, her voice. I'm fairly certain she got the short end of the stick with that arrangement because she was really a terribly sweet mare, and my words were not always hers. But then, her sight was never really mine either.
I step forward curiously, breathing deeply, a scent coming closer. My movements are far from fluid. It doesn't matter that I have been blind from birth. There is no way to move with ease when you don't know if a rock or a log is going to suddenly appear. It used to matter to me, not being seen as blind, but no more. A small smile works its way across my face in the instant before my companion speaks. It does not go unnoticed that he was careful to approach me where the wind would announce him. I am grateful.
"Yronwood" I say, my voice soft and musical. It's an unusual name, and a mouthful, but it sounds strong. My mother said strong names matter.
"Of course, yes, please. I'd like the company. I like the crowds sometimes but it makes it hard to know what's around me."
I wonder if I should point out that I am blind. There is always the awkwardness around that when I meet someone new. I decide for blunt honesty. "I'm Saskya, by the way. And I'm not ignoring you, I promise. I'm blind. I say that only so you won't be terribly offended if I bump into you."
I grin wryly, and playing my usual game of wondering what he looks like.
SASKYA
there is beauty in the darkness
Oft in the woods is a listener nigh
There is a melody woven into her voice as she speaks, and the young stallion smiles to himself as he listens to her words. Briefly, so briefly, he has the thought that he would like to listen to her voice for hours. She seemed gentler, more refined of manner, when he mentally compares her to the fierce-of-spirit Amazon mares he had grown up around, but equally worthy of respect. He may have left the jungle kingdom to start a life elsewhere, but the upbringing he had received from Dorne, along with his colthood experiences, had firmly ingrained gentlemanly behavior in his brain, and Yronwood would never treat a female harshly, provided she did not attempt to hurt him. He had a healthy regard for his own spotted skin, after all.
Chestnut ears flick as he catches her name, and he repeats it softly, tasting the letters that made up the single word. He is welcomed, and so he stays where he is, pleased to be making a new friend. "I can see why crowds would be a problem....you rely a lot upon your hearing, don't you? And the increased sounds from a large gathering would make it harder upon you to catch what you really need to hear, wouldn't it? " He chuckles at her final words, putting the wink that she can't see, into his voice instead. "Oh, don't worry, Saskya. I'm sure I am sturdy enough to withstand an accidental bumping, should such a traumatic event occur. " She hasn't said where it is that she lives, and so he asks, full of curiosity.
Yronwood evil whisperings go here my dear
Spring is my favorite time of year. Smells are so much more potent. They tell stories about a world I've missed all through the steely cold of the winter months. As my companion speaks I relish the scents that reach my nose, of dogwood and apple and oak come to life. Of the slight wetness of the breeze. Of the musk and warmth of this stallion.
I listen with an amused smile as his lips caress the syllables of my name. Saskya. I've always wondered at its meaning, what drove my mother to choose it for her mossy green child with no sight. I like the weight of it, my name. The carefree beginning that ends in a firm dip like birdsong. Hearing Yronwood speak it is like a hearing a poem slightly altered, lyrical, but strange.
“I do. And though I've grown adept at navigating through hearing alone, crowds tend to drown out what I need to know in order to avoid barreling into some poor soul.”
I laugh again, grateful for the opportunity. Life is not easy but it provides moments of respite.
“I am from nowhere. I haven't a home except wherever I decide to sleep at night. I tend to choose populated areas since I am a little less capable of fighting of a predator on my own.”
No matter where I go, and who I talk to, one theme remains the same. They wonder how I manage. How sight removed can be something one can overcome. But it is all I know, and I was never one for simply lying down and giving up. For me there was never a choice. I got up each day and I kept going.
But I don't blame those who do give up. I am not a source of inspiration. I am simply living and making do.
Having never had sight I can't be certain, but it seems a small sacrifice to make. Yes, I wish I could see the sunrise everyone raves about and the ocean and trees and half a dozen other things (I made a list once, in a darker moment) but what good does the wishing do? I can “see” in other ways. My life holds just as many treats for the senses as a sighted equine's does. Sometimes I just have to work harder to find the blessings.
“Where do you live?” I ask, an eager tone to my voice. I love hearing other describe where they've come from. It's like traveling without moving an inch. “Will you tell me about it, Yronwood?”
SASKYA
there is beauty in the darkness
Oft in the woods is a listener nigh
The matter of fact way she describes her life impresses Roe as he listens with tilted head. Not that he thought she was in any way disabled, or a being who needed to be pitied. Rather, it was because Saskya had taken what could have been a handicap and made it a part of her, adapting her other senses accordingly and living just as well as a sighted horse would. Some might have let their "lost" sense embitter them, or use it purposefully to gain sympathy from others, but this spring-colored mare had not, and the chestnut respects that immensely. For her, it was just how things were, nothing more and nothing less. He is a little surprised that she has no place to call home, but perhaps she preferred the same free, "beholden to no one" life that his mother had cherished. She asks about where it is that he lives, wants to hear it described; and he lets out a soft whicker in place of the smile she would not see.
"I was born and raised in the Jungle, but when I came of age I chose to go and live in the Tundra, where some of my mother's kin were dwelling. My sister still lives in the jungle, though. " The spotted stallion pauses to consider his words. "I haven't lived there as long as some of the other Brothers. But, the Tundra is a beautiful place once you have learned to endure the cold weather. There's glaciers, frozen waterfalls, ice caves....I managed to withhold the impulse to try and stick my tongue to an icicle. Somehow, I doubt that it would have ended well for me if I'd done it. ", he laughs before continuing on. "It's not always easy to find food with the land covered in snow and ice for most of the year, but adversity is what makes one strong. " He pauses, a question hesitating on his tongue, then decides to risk it. "Maybe you'd like to visit it someday? I could take you there. "
Yronwood evil whisperings go here my dear
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