Atlas



It all felt like spinning in circles while the earth stood in place. Such a power, such a force, should not have been possible…. and yet, with Lena, it was. She had indentured herself to the dirt and the roots that would always exist beneath her feet. It was safe and unassuming in Atlas’ own opinion, but just as stifling and unrewarding. As the world rotated around her, Lena persisted in standing still until the very end agreed to meet her head on. It was a life that Atlas was certain would take her soon enough if she let it, and it proved to be a mere skeleton of any former graces she once possessed— unless she was given a reason to move.

Without him (as he saw it) Lena would become that which she suffered for. She would sooner disappear into the mountainsides where the snow drifts were so strong that all anyone could see was white. She would instead drown in the monumental waves that plunged in from the sea before they had a chance to remember her songs. She would rather collapse in the deserts that burned too hot and too bright for too long. Or perhaps she would simply get lost in the forests she called home— where the trees would steal her away amidst their tall shadows. The earth could stand still for no one and no one could ignore its tremoring revolution.

These were the fears that had convinced Atlas to stay when it was easiest to leave—to abandon the cursed and sacrifice the needy. Lena was slowly becoming her own assassin and it was an idea that compelled the stallion to go where others had been too afraid to go and to stand where others had been too afraid to stand. Though, he still abhorred the fact that Lena had stars in her eyes when she should have been looking at Atlas as a mere mortal. He was no God, no leader, and certainly no optimist by any means… even if he sought to become those things in her presence. He pursed his lips as she spoke of him in relation to some kind of infinite divinity, but turned from her more when she appeared to have reached a fever pitch. Where she was enchanted by his wholesome beauty and perseverance toward her regard, Atlas was suddenly crestfallen. He was none of those things— not to her and not to anyone.

Had he somehow painted himself a hero? There was a time when he’d wanted nothing more than to become one, to be remembered, but now that such desires were close to becoming tangible, he was disgusted. Atlas had done little in his long life. He had done so very little. “It’s a good thing I’m not,” he countered with severity. It was as if lifting her up have become too much for him to burden alone, not when he saw how big her dreams truly were. What if he disappointed her?

The unending green of the Labyrinth stretched as far as the eye could see. The brambles however appeared much larger than before, blocking the sun from view almost entirely as they walked. A cool breeze travelled down the path from beyond and Atlas imagined that the maze itself ran miles and miles away from its threshold. He debated how far they should go before they could no longer turn back… He wondered if they would lose themselves within, unable to ever again find signs of life.

It was then that Lena burst forth from the stallion’s growing discontent, happy to roam and explore while laughter trailed in her beautiful wake. Perhaps it was just that Atlas take on the mare’s skepticism for a time as she twirled and swayed ahead of him in pure and undiluted splendor...

”I wasn’t fair – But I’m used to being left alone.”

And it wasn’t fair —to either of them¬— that life had been so cruel and so foreboding that they still suffered through their insecurities when at last they’d been given a moment to breathe. The more that Lena danced, her laughter bringing life to the surrounding verdure, the more Atlas strayed from her resounding magnificence. To look upon her felt like he’d been wasting too much time chasing all the wrong dreams and too little time searching for this. They’d both given too much time… and now they were somehow less than they’d been before. “I’m sorry,” he said simply while knowing deep inside that it would do nothing for her scars, because they were already stretched pink across her skin.

Atlas loved the way she smiled then, so open and free, while not even a shade of her previous doubt attempted to cloud the light in her eyes. He regretted his suspicion then, as unrelenting and heavy as it had grown. It wasn’t easy after all (not for them) to overcome the crowding of their spirits. But the songstress didn’t seem to notice his hesitation and instead went on to remember what it had been like to want something before and how badly it had turned out…

Visions of fire danced through his mind’s eyes and the memory of smoky clouds haunted the open walk. It was then that his eyes found the evidence of her tales hidden across the sloping planes of her back. Atlas moved with more fervor then, his neck arching and his face bobbing toward Lena’s shoulders for closer inspection. Somehow he’d missed this part of her… perhaps for lack of observation or perhaps just blind ignorance, but he’d missed it nonetheless. As she explained the dismal outcome, Atlas explored the soft curves of her back, his muzzle intent on tracing old wounds if she allowed. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his lips hovering just above the webbed scarring. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”