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06-28-2012, 11:59 PM
Little defective colt becomes aware of shadow covering his form, and begins to hear soft whispers of truths. The facts seem to emanate from the base of his skull, and he feels an almost painful ring with each word spoken that is not said in the open air. Three squabble over what is right and wrong, who can take the blame or credit for deeds long done, and he grows weary. He is unable to continue drinking, and as the sensation of pressure lessens against the back of his neck, he feels a weak fatigue overtake him. His mother had pressed him down, and yet with all his might he had rejected the idea and resisted. Now, left to his own devices, he feels spent, and his head falls limply from his shoulders. Like a soldier fallen on a battlefield, he allows his face to be covered in blood as he lies still in the pool, waiting for the sensation to end and death to come. He does not know what death is, but if it is the absence of this pain, he longs for it more than he has longed for anything before in his brief and tragic life. Somewhere, if only instinctively, he is basely aware of the fact that he is alive, and he knows that he is not very much enjoying the experience thus far. Surely its counterpart will give him relief- the voices seem to urge him towards it, as they once did to many others. His silver blue eyes open and he sees towering figures around him, all seeming faintly familiar in that they appear connected to the figure that has led him to this place. He hears the lone one speak and say a word he has never before heard. He wonders if the strange mare is indeed "mother." There is a connection between the word and the relationship he has with the mare, and suddenly the first false associative bond of what is 'normal' is forged. There is a silence that is cold and bitter, and he watches as he lies still upon the ground, feeling weak and frozen in place. Mother calls to the largest stallion among them and names him, and suddenly the colt knows who his brother is. He hears an order he cannot understand, but even as the voices cackle distressingly and warn him against such attachments, he feels a warmth towards the massive stallion that he cannot describe. One he has never felt before, and cannot yet name, but a sensation nonetheless. He lifts a weak head, dripping with blood, from the puddle and reaches out a soft and tender nose to greet the strangest of the stallions as Mandrake gives Vincent his duty. He longs for the thrill of the gentle touch not of the bridle, which lies upon the ground, glowing faintly as it relishes in its new-found freedom, but of the massive beast before him. |
