i’ve been both a saint & a viper
The wind howls ethereally through the spindles of pine tree branches, haunting and lonesome. It trickles through the thick and tangled mess of the stallion’s black mane, twisting it soothingly through bony fingertips. Their voices are in the wind, hushed and terrible, whispering in his ears and sending sweet kisses across his blue mottled neck to the bridge of his nose. They are here with him, hungry and waiting and curious, drawn to the Darkness just as Balto is himself, more of them patient and brooding within the deeper parts of the forest.
The rattling breath of the beast draws his attention from his own shadows and onto the very real one before him, once again captivated by the piercing yellow eyes. The terrible mouth closes, its grin disappearing into fog and darkness. Are you in pain? A question with a simple answer, though the soft look of surprise is not lost on the gaunt edges of Balto’s face. No one has asked him; no one has cared.
How poetic that this embodiment of darkness and shadow is the one to ask, to peruse, to pry.
The fog twists through the stallion’s legs like an old friend and even in his fear, the taut muscles grow relaxed subtly, finding some sort of horrifying comfort in the way it holds him, slowly trickling across the warmth of his skin. He does not resist and instead remains still as the darkness spreads across him, running like a cloak as it drips across his back, knitting together at the seams. There is no warmth in this embrace, only coldness and chills, and feels very much like a coffin in the way it grips him.
If I am you, your pain must be my pain.
The voice is foreboding, ominous, and Balto’s bright blue gaze comes to rest wearily into those calculating yellow eyes. He does not speak, only listens, as he realizes how trapped he has truly become.
In the near shadow, laughter floats to his ears.
Balto’s eyes close as it reaches to touch him, but the shape of him dissipates into the mottled blue of his shoulder. The stallion’s eyes then open slowly, glancing down at his shoulder then back up to the shadow just as its own eyes flutter shut.
Tired.
His age should have long since brought peppers of grey to his muzzle and eyes, and cause his bones to creak and his back to sway. But it does not. Age and time are endless, stretching so far into the future that the roan stallion can see nothing but what is before him now: darkness, shadow, demons. There is no end to his plight; a recurring nightmare that rises up like a mountain only to crumble on top of him, then rise all the same. In this way - in this living but not really living - he is so very tired.
“All I want is to rest.” A pause, a sharp intake of breath, a thought.
“Will you help me rest?”
Balto
@[jamie]