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Larkspur hardly ever sleeps, or at least it appears that way. The hours of her life are spent in a constantly restless state of empty existence. Undeterred by her attempts to remain a frozen figment, unmoved and unchanged in her own obstinacy, her stubborn pride, time passes her by. She wallows in the void of her misery, a victim of her own self-inflicted despair, caged and squandered into a depression created of her own volition. Like prison chains her unhappiness shackles her, pins her down like led weights into an endless river bottom of despondency and impenetrable gloom. It suffocates her and swallows her whole, wrapping inky, shadowed tendrils of hopelessness around the stronghold of her spirit, crawling its way into the cracks, determined to destroy any lingering remains of courage’s foundation. She could change it all if she chose to; turn the tables and the tides against the discord she elected to live in, the disharmony she allowed to enshroud her. Yet for some reason she cannot cast off the demons or chase away the phantoms that haunt her. Instead she embraces them, clings to them, their presence in the darkness of her waking thoughts is somehow soothing amongst the wailing cacophony of guilt that echoes there, the vivid memories of failure and the stifling shouts of remorse. She is a victim of her own penitence, a prisoner of her own sorrows.
Dawn. The first bleak, pale rays of sunlight herald it’s arrival. It chases the glitter and gleam of the stars from the heavens, throws painted stains of diluted crimson and powdered gold against the expanse of the horizon. Out of the darkness the snowcapped peaks of the mountains appear, like grand palisades of pure ivory against the slowly deepening blood red of a morning sky. Alone, Larkspur stands against the rocky stretch of the mountainside, a solitary figure encased in the silvery slivers of fog that roll steadily down from frozen summits into the warmth of the basin oasis. Alabaster teeth snap idly at the sparse tundra grass the grow amongst the stones and rubble, dew drops clinging to the feathery coils of hair at her pasterns, her tasseled tail dragging morosely along the ground behind her. She pauses in her perusal of the ridgeline, gilded eyes lingering in morose contemplation on the ever brightening horizon. In the wake of the approaching daylight the dark cerulean of her coat melts into the disappearing gray of the morning, obsidian strands of hair cascade like a silken river against the flat of her neck, the length of her tail, tangled and snarled like the unkempt appearance of a wild, woodland nymph. Fatigue follows her, apparent in the slow trudge of her hooves across the damp earth, the uncharacteristically dull and distant reach of her gaze that looks through everything and to nothing in particular. She could lay right where she stands and fall into an endless slumber of exhaustion, but she does not. Instead she continues her directionless, aimless ramble along the breadth of the Aurora Basin’s boundaries, drifting in and out of her own waking thoughts like a dreamer led astray, lost and abandoned within the realities of her nightmares.
If only she could wake up.
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