A R I O N
The strike of metal upon metal held a dimming croon, a radiating shine taht rattled up bone, leaving flesh to shiver and eyes to narrow. Each fall of the hammer was a quake to the heart, long having grown steady by the tremble of an inexperienced desire. Each breath fell hot, bitter with the scent of ash and fire, pungent where even long after he abandoned the hearth, the smell would linger, heavy as the soot that dyed his chest charcoal. When he breathed, nostrils flaring, the ash would swirl about in archaic patterns, blackened frost, slowly etching away the fine silver of the world. The bright blade at the slender throat of each grass blade dulled, appearing for all the world cruel and harsh, blackened like iron worked too long. This was a world he had known, had found comfort in, pardon the harsh songs and touches that met his skin. He was used to the burn of fire to close to his body, used to the sounds that drowned out everything else. He was used to the scars and marks that littered each corner of gilded mahogany and alabaster that made up his hide, open wounds rubbed raw with carbon and ash.
Ignoring the heat dancing against his sides, the reflective light of embers slowly smothered in their beds, Arion pulled away from the flames, his body shifting with the lethargic draw of a man who faced down the oblivion of his own limits, often meeting and drawing quarters on the line. He was tired... so very tired, the long hours of day leeching across the stone of the halls he had claimed his own, the shadow of the sun that burned even here, at the in-between. How long had it been since last he dared meet its grace, had felt the heat of the burning lantern high cast gold upon his hide? He could never answer that question, his memories seeming to fade into nothingness before he reached far enough back. Like the first ice of the changing seasons, they always vanished before the light, consumed by the earth and taken away, to reveal once against the dying world they lived. Always dying, always grieving, an endless cycle.
He had never feared death, never accepted it for anything other than a natural enemy. The enemy always won, always claimed its prey, and yet, they were to always fight its wrath, its hunger. To submit was to end the reign of life, and for that the stallion knew the words of old, the time when horses were far braver than they were now, each born a hero in the eyes of their mother. The complacency of the coming generations had always saddened the elders, so his sire had said, walking amidst the edge of the world where his ended and began all at once. That final battle field, that place of the dusk of one's end, the dawn of another's future. It was adequate he supposed, almost humorous, that he found himself here, in the eventide. A metaphoric end to his wandering for a time. He would like to think that the night of long steps had finally come to an end for him, and yet, Arion always grew hesitant, when he was given the chance to relax, to give in. What would it mean, should he let go of all that he had ever known, or would be? Walking, the movements of his body slow, the strike of heavy hooves upon stone was his own company the further he traveled from the hearth. The air was cool, the shadows long. The heavy lay of the pelt stretched upon his shoulders was the only thing it seemed to ward off the chill, the coldest hour of the day, when the sun had yet to break from its shackles and the moon grew complacent with her watch. There he stopped, watching as the sunlight slowly sighed across the stone, settling fine flecks of metal within the cobble aburn, and the air to dance with the mots of dusk. An ugly thing made beautiful for but a moment. Further it reached until, at last, it stopped, just before the tips of his hooves, his breath setting the mots awrithe, a tornado in the light.
Ignoring the heat dancing against his sides, the reflective light of embers slowly smothered in their beds, Arion pulled away from the flames, his body shifting with the lethargic draw of a man who faced down the oblivion of his own limits, often meeting and drawing quarters on the line. He was tired... so very tired, the long hours of day leeching across the stone of the halls he had claimed his own, the shadow of the sun that burned even here, at the in-between. How long had it been since last he dared meet its grace, had felt the heat of the burning lantern high cast gold upon his hide? He could never answer that question, his memories seeming to fade into nothingness before he reached far enough back. Like the first ice of the changing seasons, they always vanished before the light, consumed by the earth and taken away, to reveal once against the dying world they lived. Always dying, always grieving, an endless cycle.
He had never feared death, never accepted it for anything other than a natural enemy. The enemy always won, always claimed its prey, and yet, they were to always fight its wrath, its hunger. To submit was to end the reign of life, and for that the stallion knew the words of old, the time when horses were far braver than they were now, each born a hero in the eyes of their mother. The complacency of the coming generations had always saddened the elders, so his sire had said, walking amidst the edge of the world where his ended and began all at once. That final battle field, that place of the dusk of one's end, the dawn of another's future. It was adequate he supposed, almost humorous, that he found himself here, in the eventide. A metaphoric end to his wandering for a time. He would like to think that the night of long steps had finally come to an end for him, and yet, Arion always grew hesitant, when he was given the chance to relax, to give in. What would it mean, should he let go of all that he had ever known, or would be? Walking, the movements of his body slow, the strike of heavy hooves upon stone was his own company the further he traveled from the hearth. The air was cool, the shadows long. The heavy lay of the pelt stretched upon his shoulders was the only thing it seemed to ward off the chill, the coldest hour of the day, when the sun had yet to break from its shackles and the moon grew complacent with her watch. There he stopped, watching as the sunlight slowly sighed across the stone, settling fine flecks of metal within the cobble aburn, and the air to dance with the mots of dusk. An ugly thing made beautiful for but a moment. Further it reached until, at last, it stopped, just before the tips of his hooves, his breath setting the mots awrithe, a tornado in the light.
