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The world to you is a simple thing. It is black and white, gold and green: it is the blue of the ocean, bright in your eyes, and the familiarity of family. You are content to frolic and to play, to wander and amble on a curiosity crusade. Sunlight washes across your skin and you sleep—when night falls you retrace your steps, back to your mother. She is tall and she is soft and she is a glowing beacon of purity in the night: you suckle and sleep, content to simply be. When the grass (sweet-smelling) forms a pillow beneath your head, you sleep and you dream of a simple life and happy things, not out of melancholy but because you have known nothing different. One day things will not be so happy. One day you will be a warrior, a guardian, a lover: one day you will be like your father, tall, strong, both proud and humble, epitome of paladin and crusader.
You want to be like him.
You don't realize just how complicated being like him would be.
You are, as you often are, wandering when he shouts to you, but you are not far. His voice rings out not in command but in panic, and you jerk to sharp salute. Your head turns, delicate nostrils trembling in fear—the shadows seem to lengthen, pointed fingers crawling towards you with nails like claws. You tremble and you whinny in answer—I'm coming! Then you are fleeing, racing, trees and branches snatching at your, familiar paths becoming unfamiliar in your worry, the friendliness of the birds and the bumblebees becoming a haunting portent of evil to come.
Then you see him, find him—your father, eyes dark and troubled, and you leap towards him, panicked and fearful, rushing your muzzle along his neck and flank and legs, checking for injury or for harm. You whinny again, unable to express yourself adequately, and glare at him fiercely, still quivering: "You frighten me!"
@Tembovu
