demons run, but count the cost,
the battle's won, but the child is lost
Dreary, the mists clung to his fur and dampened his growing mane, his marks of red standing out like a beacon against the monochrome setting. The state of his mind was similar to his surroundings; full of numb fog. The herd he had been taken to was boasting high spirits, their battle won and their home safe, but this little one did not share in their joys or their relief. He was angry, confused, his body trembled with anxiety as he struggled to find an object to direct his frustration. Sacre was a boy not known for his patience, his blood held the spirit of callous warriors until now held at bay by the child’s own volition. He had wished to judge this world based on his own findings and for a while he had thought his father wrong, his anger misdirected and unneeded, but now. No, now Sacre was beginning to understand perhaps a little of his parents thinking, a little of their reasoning, but he was confused. He was just a boy. He didn’t understand the reason and it frustrated him to no end. Disappointment plagued the mountain born colt too, many had spoke of battle and blood shed, but for some reason Sacre never quite grasped the full meaning. He only ever saw the glory side that his boyhood dreamt of. It wasn’t like that at all and it made him sick.
He continued walking towards the cliff on legs longer than they were when he first came here, seasons had changed since then, it made him wonder if Roux looked any taller with a twist of his heart. His horn had become longer, at times it gave him a headache as the red weapon molded itself into something more deadly, becoming heavier for the boy to carry as his body slowly adjusted to the new weight. However, Sacre was indeed very proud of his crimson sword and had made a mental note to look after it better than his father had his own. His mind drifted to his family and soon he was wondering when he was going to see them again, the child missed the cold wind on his face and the pretty night lights. This misty abode may have been the home his parents sought, but Sacre belonged to a different place of snowy drifts and stoic mountains.
Tinted in precious gold with a moon upon her rump, that was his captor, Rishima was who he answered to. He wondered what now she was going to do with him, the battle was over, did they really need him anymore? Did they want something else? Arriving at the cliff he stared down into what little he could see of the ocean, so peaceful and calm, wishing he could ride away on the waves to some new place. He’d take Roux and together they could live a long and happy life, no wars and no bad ‘uns to take them away, but the dawning realization was sinking into Sacre’s every fibre. Perhaps he too would have to fight in battles one day to achieve the world he wanted, the world he needed. He knew Roux did not think much to his idea, his brother didn’t seem too bothered about his eyesight, maybe he thought Sacre couldn’t fix him. Did he want to be fixed?
The dusky child shook his head, there were too many things clouding his mind for such a taxing conversation with himself.
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