speak

*"You're wrong."*

It is pointless to him, to revisit these thoughts, these decisions he has made about feminine children. They are halls he has walked far too often, ideas that he has rehashed and perfected with far too much clarity. They are boring, and vexing in their dullness, these dull children, their dull defiance with their dull pride and their dull, dull, dull perceptions of courage. He’s numb, now; he’s dull with it.

He turns in the blood he stands him, matted with it now, for the night’s cool kiss of a breeze has dried it to his legs, his sides, the flecks of it that adorn his face. Moonlight flickers in his eyes, pools of grey fire that stare at the child who continues to speak. He remembers, long ago, when the pull of a lung kept him from chasing a foul little black bitch who dared encroach upon his territory. That pull is minimal, now; he is large; this thing is tiny. And he remembers, now, how that little black bitch had kneeled to him—and how pointless that kneel has turned out to be, and how little he has gained from her arrogant service; how incompetent she has turned out to be. She is useless. She is always useless.

He does not care for submission as he looks upon the scrawny thing. He does not care for it by any means—there is no wrath to spare upon such a silly creature. The words she spoke do not even startle him, at any rate. He has grown expectant of these filly ways.

“You’re talking,” comes the wind, the creep of a shadow newly formed. A solitary cloud floats upon the night; it shutters the moon’s rays, and for a span of crucial heartbeats, they descend into profound and utter darkness.

“Who is your mother?” the shadows ask; the stallion rears in the darkness, and hooves fall like hail and damnation, ringing for the child. The echo of an old game of cat and mouse grips him; this child will leave, even if it means the devil himself must hound her from his presence. She will know blood if she doesn’t know before now; he will create himself an enemy, and see if hatred unmasks any sort of greatness inside of the female. She is his seed, and experiment of the weaker sex—and he does not aim to kill her.

Maim, perhaps. Humble, maybe. But not kill.





@[Nymeria]