At first, the dove assumed that the slowly approaching light was just a trick of her deluded mind, a strange effect of the brilliant flashes of lightning against her retinas.  Darkness surrounded her, broken here and there by the storm's wrath.  Still she stood, alone and unafraid, inviting the tempest to berate her, to take her, to give her the peace that she so desperately longed for.  Still the wind howled, still the lightning flashed, still the thunder rolled, and still she did not fall.

The light was growing nearer now, a strange, flickering orange that was vaguely familiar even to the mare's dulled mind.  Her gaze, drawn before to the darkness of the choppy waters of the oasis, turned to the approaching creature.  Lightning flashed again, and she thought she could just make out the silhouette of a pegasus.  Knowing who it would be, unless her eyes deceived her, she shut them tightly, screwing her face against the battering rain.  She stood in silence, no longer interested in professing her rage to the world, no longer wanting to linger in the storm.  She could not bear to think that he had seen her in her worst moment.  Not now.

When she opened her eyes and he was there, close enough to make out even in the downpour, she gazed at him with glassy, emotionless eyes.  He was no more than a shadow set aflame, though she could easily see his face in her mind's eye.  She tried to imagine what she might see, had the day been sunny and bright; her imagination drew a blank.  All she could see was a distant stare, an emotionless visage - all she could see, in her imagination, was the denial of her affections, the sudden decay of all that she had returned to fix.  In truth there was little and less, for she could see only the vague outline of his features through the storm.

Thunder rolled, and as it quieted, she spoke a single word:  "Gaucho." It was not a whisper, but nor was it a shout. It was not angry, but neither was it pleased. It was nothing but the merest brush of lips against his ear, the slightest greeting of an old acquaintance almost forgotten. If the stallion had any doubts, surely they would disappear upon her lackluster greeting. Surely he would see through her aging beauty to the darkness that lay beneath. Surely he would look upon her now and find her wanting.

There was no going back.

words words

@Gaucho