arleigh
She doesn’t even notice him at first—the other figure, tall and dark, approaching them from the field of snowy ruin. Her eyes are narrow and squinting, ashen pupils like white fire, and her whiskery lips continue to tremble with bleats and whimpers from the pain that proceeds to sear through her buckled tendons. Is this life? Her small mind tries to make sense of what is happening to her, this feverish distress (to no avail), and all she knows to do is reach out for safety—for mother.
Of course, the black babe has no realization of what misery she is inadvertently inflicting upon the very woman she clings to for her own comfort—of the magic that surges from her aching soul in a haphazard swell of electricity. She does not know how wrong it is as the black mare quakes with pain, too wrapped up in her own woes, with her fledgling mind far too overwhelmed and her senses past their edge of understanding. Small, downy wings flap clumsily against her sides, instinctively trying to bear the weight that her throbbing legs cannot.
It is his touch that distracts the filly. Confusion, because she is looking at her mother (clinging to her with wide, ashen eyes), and it isn’t her who the babe feels breathing against the feathery limbs of her wings. Puckering her lips with a mewling whimper, the young girl glances up, her head leaning backwards as her eyes (still frozen wide and staring) focus on this new stranger. His scent, foreign and musky, is entirely strange for the newborn. With stubborn cries still warbling in the back of her throat, the girl extends her head towards him with an innocent sort of curiosity, her nostrils flaring.
And then suddenly her mother is there—
Standing over her, like a familiar cocoon of comfort, enveloping her as she always has. Mercifully, the newborn babe cannot comprehend the tension that is harbored between the adults (her parents), and is instead soothed by the proximity of the woman she has always known. Still reaching, the filly noses her mother’s leg, bracing herself against her sturdiness because instinct tells her that she must stand (she doesn’t know that this is not what they all must endure, what they all must suffer through in life).
“Speech.”
but I will hold on hope, and I won’t let you choke
on the noose around your neck
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