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Through red eyelashes, the dusty stallion watches the rhythmic toss and dance of the sea from the perch of a lofty crest of sand. Salty ocean wind plays in cascading hair the color of fire - the smell of it recalls brittle bone and spilled dry blood upon fine pale sands; he shudders against a wall of briny air, memories trickling before his eyes like some storm, long ago. Sparse beach grass tickles the bottom of his belly with gentle, skinny fingers, sending thrills down his dark red spine. Though hunger makes greedy grasps at his stomach, the dun knows this seaside vegetation is tough and salty, so unlike the sweet, lush grasses of his home. A strange sort of smile nips at the corners of his lips - home; his heart gives a pathetic leap in the broad cavity of his chest. Victory against two unworthy leaders does not seem to be enough in the eyes of his people, and the smile fades into a grim line. They question and doubt - did Archibald or Svetlana, or Evers ever fight for them, shed precious blood in their name? The great Stormchaser bowed, and the mighty Dauntless was felled like a great oak tree. His left shoulder aches terribly at the memory, although it has healed considerably, thanks to Willow's healing.

Silver eyes catch the dying day in pale yellows, oranges and pinks, dancing at the back of his irises. The sky is vibrant and colorful, day relinquishing itself for night - baby blues fading to yellow and red, until it darkens and darkens to dark blue, speckled with stars. A dragon flies over the water, chasing his gilded reflection like a child who has just discovered himself in a mirror. He watches the water herald the dragon; the sea is the canvas, and the great vault of sky above is an impressionistic painting, wind-teased waves shattering the image above until the meaning has been drained from the lines, and all that remain are shattered pieces of color. Gaze turns from the water to the horizon, his rusty face outlined by the falling sun. A breeze whistles through his tattered ear, and he realizes the pain of that memory has gone, and the scars litter his hide like the forgotten pieces of a machine, rusted long ago. He exhales softly, breath carried to the sea by a gentle zephyr smelling heavily of salt.
Will he be forgotten too, left to rust, tossed away like any other dispensable chess piece? The dragon is too close to the sea, now, his belly brushing the water's surface, a slender trail left in his midst. An emboldened seabird dives toward the reptile, beady eyes ablaze with bravado. They circle each other, a dangerous dance. With a frown, he remembers the amethyst mare with her jewel-bright eyes, pretty and slender, the cold, cold horn kissing the flesh of his cheek.

What is your name?

Would he ever know?