how violent the hope of love can be

Saphira had gone north, away from the city and the shore, hoping - what was she hoping for? To be alone? To starve? She carried only a few small loaves of stale bread. They wouldn’t make the trip back to the court, and they certainly wouldn’t carry her through however many days at market it took for her to earn her next couple of meals. Winter wore her thin; even through her curling coat you could see it. Bony hips, protruding ribs. She wasn’t starving, mostly.

As she crested a low hill, a field of equines and lumps of snow met her. She curled her lip and surveyed: they looked happy. Merry, even. Lights shone around them for as far as the eye could see, and all over there were couples piling snow into - animals? She could practically feel their giggles. Gross. 

The singular thought which kept her from turning around was this: Maybe there’s free food.

So, Saphira, the salt-crusted, hungry mare, crunched through the snow with her least-threatening scowl (she was never-not scowling, perhaps even incapable of it), and as she looked about for some sign of a banquet table, she was hit with a snowball.

A young stallion cantered up to her, laughing heartily. Saphira bared her teeth. He turned tail immediately. Her gaze traveled down to the pile of snow at her feet, the residual cold seeping into her skin. In moments, the snow had formed itself into a small fish. Saphira stopped scowling, if just for a moment. 


@Michael | "Speaking." | notes