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SHEBA
Sometimes you wonder if you are doomed to live out the rest of your days like this. One can never truly grow used to being ugly, you think, nor can one completely ignore the creaking of one’s joints, but now things you would have never done before come second nature. You avoid all reminders of your appearance with practiced ease, no longer pausing to admire your ghostly reflection on the surface of a still pond—you’re more ghoul than ghost now, anyways. And you’ve long since gone numb to the stiffness in your legs, moving at a short, efficient clip instead of the fluid, floaty trot of which you’d once been so proud. If nothing, Fireball’s curse has reminded you of your resilience in the face of horribly unfair circumstances. And though you still curse his name under your breath, your conversation with Rostislav on the mountaintop so long ago has made you wonder: what if this beast who called himself a god actually did intend keep his promise?
The idea made you squirm, a doubly unpleasant combination of scenarios. You didn’t trust promises, hadn’t for a long time. And to submit to Fireball’s will to get your body back? You hated the idea of it almost more than you hated him for doing this all to you. But seasons later, what choice did you really have? You’d put up a valiant struggle, you really had, but now, even you knew you’d be a fool not to try to help yourself. Besides, winter was coming. After witnessing the havoc that last Frostfall had wreaked on your already-frail body, you weren’t eager to risk exposure to the elements again. And so, it was with a self-pitying resignation that you decided that it was time to find companions.
There were several herds occupying this land, that much you knew from your visits to the gathering place where newcomers were scooped up by eager recruiters and towed back home, their liasons no doubt beaming in triumph and self importance. You supposed that the logical thing to do was to get yourself to this Threshold, and deign to let them pick you up and coax you home like some stray dog, so there you headed, sighing to yourself all the while. You weren’t much for herd life, being in the habit of trusting no one but yourself; however, desperate times called for desperate measures, and it was in the interest of self-preservation that you were doggedly marching towards your fate.
Of course, there was one little thing, one nagging little worry in the back of your mind that you ever-so-annoyingly had to keep brushing away. It was ridiculous really, nothing to truly—oh, but what if they didn’t want you? Of course they did, you’d scoff to yourself. Hadn’t everybody always? But at the same time, you knew that the game had changed. You were no longer the great beauty you once had been, just a scraggly mare whose haughtiness wasn’t as appealing as it had been when it had come in finer packaging. It was quite exhausting, really, the game of mental tug of war that raged in your head as you made your way north.
Moving at your pace, the journey to the Threshold took a few days’ travel, and the midday sun was high in the sky as you eased your way under the familiar shady canopy. Glancing around, you sampled the air discreetly, the scent of many horses confirming that you were in the right place. Well, you thought, you’d made it then. Now all there was to do was wait.
@[Bucephalus]
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Secrets Don't Make Friends {Bucephalus}
