kid

Mother shrugs her shoulders towards my scarred figure, giving no care whether I wandered farther than the borders of Helovia or stayed glued to her brindled hip— she chose to show little about whether or not my health was of any importance to her or simply a burden. Today, she seemed especially eager to rid herself of my pesky presence by giving me the precious gift of freedom— where she cared little for my well being and let me roam to any destination I pleased so long as I returned to her by a specific hour (usually when the sun is just beginning to kiss the tops of hills on its way below the horizon).

And as I trudged through the forest with branches reaching desperately for my bi-coloured hair and getting tangled up in my tail, I realize how much of a mess I am. Sure, I'm going for an artfully tousled look with my hair, where it curls at the ends and looks satisfyingly messy— but now it just looks like a disaster. I catch its state while running past a particularly large puddle, skidding to a halt (like those cartoon characters, slipping on my heels for a moment before stopping) to stare at my rippling twin. Why do I look so gross? My nose wrinkles up and brows narrow at my reflection, ears flattened at the debris clinging to my sooty locks like they'll be damned if they slip away (I wouldn't really call falling to the ground being damned, but in twig terms maybe they're the same).

By now I'd gotten far past the forest our family resides in, just barely beginning to pass the borders of the Threshold (so many lost horses, so little care for them)— eyes alight with childish curiosity as my hooves scuff up the dirt as I parade into a whole new area of Helovia. Sabre was not at my side to witness such a grueling sight, not here to watch my expression fall into pure surprise at the scene laid out before me.

Blood, swirling and rumbling as it flows over rocks and into a massive body of red— a bubbling, churning macabre waterfall that sent a shiver down my marred spine. Phantom trickles of my own warm blood traversing my body make my knees quake momentarily. But it did not smell like iron, the way my mouth does after Mother bashes at my head and my tongue or cheek get caught up in my clattering jaw— it does not flow thick and opaque over the smoothed rocks that alter its course.

It is not blood, I can assure myself this— it is water, capturing the hued rays of hundreds of red shapes beneath its surface— riches. My shoulders loosen, no longer tense at the prospect of blood (associated commonly with beating, fear and Mother), shaken at the confirmation that the earth was not stained red and that there was no coppery scents clinging to my flaring nostrils. It was safe, serene in a place littered with precious stones, ready to be plucked by any wanderer brave enough to risk clambering over slick stone.

And I, the fool, am enticed enough by the glittering golden shape near the base of the waterfall that I dare take steps towards it. What could only be four or five feet above the deep, deep pool of water is something eye-catching and pretty. Being the idiot who finds anything that shines an object worth my time and appeal, I step cautiously upon the first stone, feeling cold water splatter against my foreleg. Another step, then two more and I'm perched atop the rocks now— eyeing with a greedy grin the golden item that has caught my attention, cradled carefully by loose rubies. I take big steps, feeling my grey hooves sliding against the slick surface of the water washed stones, frantically scrambling towards my prize in desperation.

I triumphantly scoop it up, water assaulting my nose as I reach into the raging falls to grab the golden item— a crown (or a comb? Both?). Pulling it from the grasp of the red jewels, I turn around and pick (very slowly) my way down the rocky path that I'd took to get up. Upon touching solid ground (thank gods I made it this far), I lay my trophy out at my hooves to take in the finer details I couldn't have observed earlier when I reached for it.

It was a golden crown, carved with ornate patterns (like on the crowns kings wear), embedded with glittering rubies that shimmered pink under certain light. The crown was pronged, enough prongs to consider it a brush of sorts. So my grin grows, teeth taking up the decoration and gingerly combing through my disaster of a tail, taking the utmost care in making sure I didn't over brush it (artfully tousled, remember?) I do the same for the ends of my short mane, shaking my neck and head to free it of any dirt or twigs. And, with absolute elegance and caution, I place the crown atop my head, rooting it in the space between my ears (where a real crown would one day sit).

"Talk."