speak

The moonlight swaths over everything in sight, silver velvet draped over the finery the nighttime. It is a cool sort of shadow, this silvery moonshine; it bathes the shoulders of the Grey-Eyed prince, the darkling colt who is colt no more; he feels it wrap around him, a soothing blanket, the lullaby of seasons passed—a familiar litany of the darkness. He lifts his head; his eyes close against the moon’s rays, the tips of his mane illuminated by silver shards, his breath misting out before him, snaking out in a cloud of vapor, caught in the glow. How familiar this all is, how painfully sweet; the days of his younger ears flood his brain, and he basks in that long-lost feeling of coltish abandon, an absent minded security that has since rotted from his form, a worn-out armor of diseased leather that has been discarded for a larger chest and even larger balls.

Blood is red, and it smells of iron. The scent of it reeks from his pelt, from the fauna that grows around him, baptized as it is in crimson splashes. He does not feel the stickiness of it, the mess he has made—though he knows blood to congeal into thicker stuff, a sort that hardens into slimy stones. He shifts his weight; bones crack beneath his hooves, the stones, perhaps, of the conquered fortress he has stormed, just as the blood that pools at his feet, clings to the feathers of his legs and the tips of his muscled tail, is the mortar.

The image of Abraham comes to mind, briefly. He is a piece of childhood as well, just as the blood is, the death in this valley; Reginald did not know that other colt , the intruder that plunged to his death into the rapids of a stormy river, helped along by a healthy, hearty shove by twin pillars of rage. This poor fool, who’s corpse he stands upon now—he does not know this one either, yet here it lays dead, and here he stands supreme, awesome, perfect in the moonlight. He does not notice a child in the shadows—not yet. Now his ears only ring with the clamor of a battle—a massacre--and his nose only fills with the iron of blood.

He stretches; the stream is thick and golden, brilliant and so very, very male, splashing about and mixing into the sanguine puddle, defiling it, staking his claim and his victory. He groans, deeply; eyes remain closed, rapturous; he sates the lust of a different sort, and he is soothed by these things, the comforts of the moon and his memories, the delectable experience of now.




@[Nymeria]--Do you like to be tagged?