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Had she ever been his? He had thought so, once upon a time. Yet Florelle’s words whispered insidiously through his veins, forcing him to question every memory, to drag up every scrap of recollection scrutinize them for falsity. Doubt began to twist in his gut, a coiled monster rising up to devour his insides. He wanted to double over, to howl that his memories of the sylvan girl were real and pure, untouched by lies and deceit. A shrieking, swirling emptiness fills his heart, freezing it solid and spreading numbness throughout his body.
Hollow, defeated, the golden stallion just stares blankly into the distance for a while. Answering doesn’t seem important now. Nothing seems important. All his best memories, the ones that made life bearable, had been called into question, and while he cannot deny that Angel was indeed his, he cannot confirm it either. Such knowledge is like salt being poured into a gaping wound, burning agony mixing with blinding pain until he knows nothing besides his suffering.
The thought of throwing himself down the mountain is tempting, but Sandman refrains from such drastic action. With his luck, he’d somehow survive the drop, broken bones and mental anguish washing over his ragged form until some damned horse would just happen to wander by, and just happen to be a healer, and that would just be terribly counterproductive.
And so he lingers in the flower filled field, in this place above the clouds that holds no solace for a hollow creature such as himself. An old legend flits through his mind, stories of other beings who travelled between worlds in a state of emotionlessness, searching for lost hearts. Would he become one of them? What if his heart no longer existed, swallowed by the greedy darkness that has suddenly grown inside of him? “There’s nothing left…” He isn’t even aware that the words have been said aloud, too busy contemplating what his life will be like now that nothing bright remains.
OOC:
Acting my part
Speaking my lines
Plotting the scene
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