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Thoughts of home did not send Larkspur into fond moments of recollection or heart ache, but rather quite the opposite. She bore a different kind of sadness upon her shoulders, a deep resentment that roiled and festered in her chest like an open sore, a fury that reared its ugly head at the thought of remembering, mixed with the undeniable shame of guilt for running from it all, something that she continuously buried in the deepest recesses of her heart- where no one would ever find it. So Larkspur chose not to think of her mother, who despite her best attempts to keep her daughter under lock and key, ended up with a wild, untamable fighter. And she lamented the fact that with each rise of the sun her father’s memory seemed to fade and dim further, the passing of time continuously eating away the last fragments of the only one who had ever mattered.
It left her empty, hollow, searching and aching aimlessly for the same conviction that had once driven her resolve.
It was, perhaps, a hopeless cause.
Larkspur heard him first, the tell-tale sound of hooves tracking across the freshly thawed ground, unhurried and lackadaisical in the distance between strides, near enough for her to notice his presence with relative ease and catch wind of his scent, unfamiliar and new as it lingered around her with the still frigid Birdsong breeze. Slender ears swivel and careen in his direction, golden eyes attempting to remain ambiguous as she watches the stallion draw closer and closer still. Uncertain of his intentions, and growing vexed with herself for allowing someone to wander up to her so easily, the mare continues to eat with slightly less invigorated enthusiasm than before. She assumes that if she remains quiet he will go away, and she can be left to wallow in her tangled, twisted, self-imposed misery.
But he speaks.
“If you’re not careful, that’ll go straight to your hips, you know.”
The dark mare almost chokes on her most recent mouthful of grass, the blades catching in the sudden dryness of her throat, her eyes wide with uncharacteristic surprise as she coughs and splutters, trying to catch her breath. She recomposes herself immediately, realizing after several fleeting seconds that she had not been imagining things, and that those words had truly come out of the insolent creatures very own mouth. Ambiguity is lost on her now, and gilded eyes narrow in inauspicious, murderous scrutiny as she finally gets a good look at the scoundrel. Do not be mistaken- she does not take offense, like some flowery, vain women might have, but rather she wonders at his audacity and obvious lack of tact. Her eyes linger on him without digression, unwavering in their piercing stare. She takes note of the spiraled ruby horn, the strong slope of his shoulder, the scars and blemishes that crisscross their way across his bay coat in intricate patterns, some unnoticeable to the untrained eye.
Larkspur sees them though, she sees him.
There wouldn’t have been a chance in hell of knowing who he was out of a thousand other faces, and she knows she has never met him in her lifetime, but a slow realization needles at her like the persistent, irksome hum of a gnat. There is an undeniable familiarity about him that aggravates her; she can see it in the way he holds himself, the unforgiving, indifferent tone of his voice, and the keenness in those indigo eyes that peer back at her expectantly.
Fearless and without hesitation she steps toward him, long, cat-like strides carrying her forward with momentum fortified and molded in tenacity . There is nothing meek and mild about her, no hint of helplessness or damsel like distress of some beauty in need of rescuing. Her eye lashes do not flutter wantonly and no sigh of feminine fatigue escapes her, she is not fragile, and she is not weak. All but growling she settles into a stop just steps away from where he stands, an image of her wild, sometimes irrational temper come to life.
"While I appreciate your concern,” Words are laced with sickly sweet antagonism, baiting him to bite, “I can only begin to imagine the insecurities that would drive a man to such limitless amounts of bravery, that he would dare to comment on a woman’s weight.”
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Like slow-spinning redemption. [Déodat]
