Young colt felt hoofbeats shaking earth at the river bank, and wondered if it was the end. Was this death coming for him, speaking his name in a bid to call him into whatever realm awaited him? But no, he pieced together the words spoken, and none of them were his name. The touch of a velvet nose and lips brushed his face. He had never been kissed before- was this a kiss? Surely the reaper did not kiss those he stole away, surely this must have been something different. He felt exhaustion sweep over him to the point where he felt unable to move, even as the strange voice urged him upwards. He was unaware of the several minutes that passed before he could bear to open his eyes to the blackness and heed her words.

On heavy limbs he rose, teetering disturbingly from side to side. Upon his features, the glow of the white bridle had dimmed only to a dull shine, making the dapples across his eyes a sight marred by darkness. Manhattan stirred beneath the hot breath of the stranger and at the departure of Knox's warmth, whining softly in a feeble attempt to protect her master. Her paws braced against the ground and she tried to stand, but hunger gripped her and she fell as if she would never again rise. He felt her leave his side and panic struck him with the same speed that his blindness had. "Manhattan," He murmured as he lowered his head to her side, nudging her to rise. "Come, little one," He begged, desperation seeping through the cracks in his voice and the melancholy tone.

He found he was entirely unaware of his surroundings in a new way. With Manhattan too weak to stand, he felt empty and cold, as if there was nothing left- and to top it all off, he could not see. He had no understanding of where he stood, where the stranger was in relation to himself- when he lifted his head to breathe in more deeply the scents of the land, he found himself unintentionally brushing the mare's neck. He took in her scent instead, but did not recognize it. He did not recognize anything, for that matter- the way the earth felt beneath him was new and strange; the young colt had never before experienced the forgiving sands that coated the dragon's throat territory. He wondered faintly if that was where he was- he could recall faint descriptions of the land, but they all seemed to fail him in that moment.

At his feet, Manhattan whined and cried. Before him, the mare told him to find water. Around him everything was black. He turned in what he thought was the direction of the mare and once more drew too close, this time bumping her cheek with his nose. He drew back quickly, apologetically, not repulsed by the touch so much as unfamiliar with its concept. He found himself stumbling and struggling to stand on legs that yearned to fold and rest, found himself turning desperately as if it would allow him to see once more. She had told him to get water, he remembered that faintly. "I-" he began, feeling nervous and upset, unable to form full thoughts aloud, "I-I'm blind."

The statement was a simple fact, but it was spoken as if a mournful cry, a burgeoning question or desire for what he lacked. He turned back to where he thought she rested, unable to truly tell in the cimmerian ink that was now his vision. He looked at her pleadingly, desperately. Lead me to the water he thought, filled with hopefulness and helplessness but unwilling to admit that he possessed either. At his feet, Manhattan whined.

       Young colt felt the brush of a near stranger's mane against his face, heard her urging him to take hold of her when he had never before taken hold of anyone. Trust was a foreign concept, one he held only between himself and his companion, and without an understanding of its depth. To take part in it so readily now was unfamiliar, and he was left with a sense of heavy hesitation.

But the thirst compelled him. His dried and cracked lips parted to take hold of what had become his salvation, and he took his first steps guided by another towards the pitch that was the oasis. He listened only as she spoke; he gave her no answer. She reassured him of the presence of his companion, but until she was beside him he could not rest.

She explained the water to him, mentioned its smell. Strange that he had never smelled it before, he thought. It rushed past, leaving spray across his twitching skin, filling in the gaps between the hairs of his thickening coat. He had lost the covering of a foal, yet regained it in the face of Frostfall. Frostfall- until then he had to live like this. It seemed impossible now that blindness overtook him. How foolish he had been to agree so readily to the task given to him by the gods.

He had heard once that his father had been blind. He remembered his first thought upon hearing of his father's condition: What sort of Sentinel couldn't see? To guard in darkness, to live in it; how could one grow powerful then? It was why he had journeyed to the gods for his magic in the first place- to learn how to live without sight as his father once had. He longed to learn from his father- longed to see him one day.

But now in the darkness he saw nothing. Perhaps it had been a foolish hope to think that the dead lived behind the eyes of the blind. Forlorn, his ears twitching madly to keep him grounded in sound, he bent to the surface of the water. It splattered his features, colder than he had ever expected it could be. Why had he never thought of water as so cold before? It had been sustenance he had taken for granted- but as he drank it now, let it sink into his senses and fill his form with strength, he could not understand how he ever would have thought it unimportant.

He felt Manhattan beside him breathing and bending to drink, and reassurance swept over him as he understood at once that his only love in this world was safe. He did not turn to face the mare now- he had long since dropped her mane and could no longer locate her. But into the darkness he parted dripping lips and spoke his gratitude.

"Thank you," came the simple words. Renewed now, he remembered her questions. Who was he- where was he from? Good questions. He was the son of the noble Sentinel and the wicked black widow, from blood and mental drills, from spoken commands and a twisted sense of family. He longed for something different now, an escape from all that cruelty that he was bred to believe was love. But without that, was he really anything?

"I am Knox," the colt murmured, his voice low, his head beginning to ache. "I... I am from nowhere. Not anymore."

The words felt strange on his tongue.

[[Sorry for the wait!]]