You were never meant for obedience, you sour-faced girl.
When the gentle breeze whispers your name, you hardly rouse from your slumber. (And before, when wild wind swept you this way and that, you faced it with gritting teeth and opposed the push and pull because it dared to force your hand. This is no different. You will not obey.) The subtlest flutter disturbs your eyelashes, but you do not stir. Whatever the lullaby weaves, your dreams tell you it can wait until morning.
When you awake, the tapestry draped around you is bright and violent in ways you never knew existed. To your left and right, the startled snorting and kicking threads red into your ears. Before you weaves dirty brown water and fencing. Wrapped around your face strings brilliant gold and in your mouth sits harsh, metallic silver. You taste the lullaby's magic before fully understanding it.
Obedience weighs heavy on your tongue.
My darling girl! you hear the pleased stranger cry as he loosens your ties and draws you forth. Your heart races with rage. Every atom in your body rebels. Your head snaps backward but that savory silver--that lesson on your gums--it loosens the stiffness in your legs. It follows wherever the stranger beckons. You find you cannot stray.
Soon, you learn that the creature leading your way is called Pollux. You learn that Pollux is fond of another creature of his type, Castor. You watch with reeling, violet eyes as these beings admire you. You feel that age-old dread in your gut: the inevitability of fate. And when Pollux touches you lovingly, you do not shy away. That silver in your mouth, the cold obedience, loves to be praised. You feel that love and you want it, too.
The bit teaches you quickly. Once Pollux is comfortable atop you, you catch on quickly to the intricacies of his hand, the subtle movements, the quiet direction. You find you like his gentle sounds of delight, the way he slaps your neck when you surprise him with your quick wit. You love his praise and he loves your instinct. You two, in the minutes before looming battle, are a perfect match.
The beach is hot and you dance anxiously, terribly unfamiliar with war but certain something terrible is to happen. The sun is hot, noonday and blistering, beating down on cooking sand; and you and your companions all shuffle uncomfortably beneath leather and metal armor.
It's in these short minutes that you learn what Castor and Pollux mean to each other. Pollux and your immortality, Castor jokes. Pollux jovially slaps his brother on the shoulder, laughing with all the force of his gut. It is clear there is love and devotion between them. You, for the first time in your short life, feel a twinge of jealousy. Moments ago, Pollux was showering you with all the praise a man might muster for a horse; but it is clear you will never have that (that unconditional companionship borne only between lifelong brothers, that single slap on Castor's shoulder carrying so much more weight than the ones to your neck).
When the battle begins, the shouting and scoring, the battering and blood, you throw yourself into pleasing your leader. Oh, you sour-faced girl. Oh, you naive, shrewd lioness. Perhaps you were born for battle, for obedience. Perhaps you just never met the hand meant to guide you. You have always been destined for displeasure, for falling headlong into that which you did not mean to cause. Is that why you did it, Galadriel? Is that why your sour face, screwed up in utter concentrated devotion, falls flat at your realization?
It's not your fault Pollux's men are not prepared for Poseidon's wrath. It's not your fault that sword and leather is nothing against a sea-god's army. None of this is your fault. You tell yourself over and over, as the green and blue river gods descend, it is not your fault.
You can hear the men crying out that they've angered Poseidon for spilling blood into his clear ocean. How could they have known that today he was charming some unsuspecting nymph with the aquamarine clarity on this beach's reef? How could you have known, Galadriel? How could you have known of the dangers of war, the fickle wiles of the gods?
It is not your fault that Castor falls down beneath a pile of writhing sea serpents. How could it be your fault? Your only intention was to draw that loving hand back to your side. For Pollux to be so pleased with your instincts that he'd proclaim he will never take another steed. When you subtly drew him further and further away from his brother, you only wished to bring him glory. To make him the brother that struck down more of their enemies.
But when Pollux catches sight of his falling sibling, cutting down snakes even as he falls to his knees in the shallow water, he roars and tears the bit so hard against your lips that you bleed. He beats you with his heels and his hand. In those few moments, no matter how your hooves slam against the sand, you are never fast enough. Pollux does not love you as you race to his brother, who lies face up in the wash. He falls from your side and cries anguish, anguish, anguish. As you stare down at the foaming mouth of poisoned Castor, you feel the weight of obedience.
For those who are most obedient are always forgotten.
word count: um like 925 i think lmao