A s t a

Hooves pounded behind her.

It wasn't surprising; in fact, she hardly paid them any mind - other than trying to lose them. Her parents were vastly obnoxious in their over-protectiveness, not that she could blame them . . . . too much. They were vastly unprepared to be 'gifted' with her birth. Even now, at five, they still saw her as the precious gift from that goddess, that needed to be protected and hidden away from the world. Their own dusk-tinted blessing. Their little gift from the gods. Stupid gods. Stupid pelt. Stupid life. But she couldn't blame them. They didn't know the truth; they didn't know who she was, what she was, what she'd seen, what she'd done.

And it was pointless to explain.

She'd tried to before, in the past, with someone else. They'd thought she was touched. She remembered those evals; she remembered those 'treatments' to make her mind well. To return her to the gentle little miss of the house, to rid of the demons plaguing her mind. She wasn't stupid any longer. She knew the truth; no one would understand. To this world, she was merely the Young Miss Stendahl, of house Stendahl. The protected and loved daughter: unseen to the public. A whispered treasure of Terrastella, seen for social functions of the elite, and it was only then she was allowed - willingly - to leave her wing of their home. A caged bird, a trapped butterfly in a crystal terrarium. Beautiful, but prisoned.

So, she escaped again.

With any luck, she would be free for at least a few days. Even two or three days would be nice, but she knew she'd be lucky to get a few hours. She was too notable not to be muttered about were unlucky (for her) ears could pick up the whispers. It's why she attempts to sneak out where in the early morning, less up, less notable beings who could find her, tell her watchers where she was. She could be out for longer, part of the world she'd walked for so many lifetimes, before being dragged back. The sun was barely starting to rise, swiping colors across the sky. She'd seen thousands upon thousands, millions upon millions of sunrises in her lifetime. It startled her still that such small things, such pretty things could be . . . lifeless now.

I've gotten old and bitter.

The wayward thought wasn't accusatory - she couldn't blame herself for this cursed cycle she lived and died and lived again. With every death, she'd gasp awake, a newborn babe. And in those years, since the first horse walked the earthen planes, there was little left to take her breath away, little she'd hadn't seen, little she hadn't experienced. Little that could bring her joy. Her hooves slowed, noting that the following beats had disappeared at some point. She rolled her shoulders, glimmering fabric rolling slightly, as the shawl resettled against her skin, the soft clinking of delicate chains around her neck adorning her face, showing the wealth of her family, the price they'd put to her worth. Worth in beauty, not in the brain, of course.

She was just a doll on display anyway.

She'd learned many lifetimes ago that there was little use to break that expected mold of a society maiden. Speak when spoken to—obscure your brilliance. The lady of the households parties and caters to her husband's whims. She's a trinket, a delicate trophy to show off when the competition of 'best wife,' 'best daughter,' 'best family' start up again. A notch in a belt. A trophy on a shelf. A value to a household's wealth. She was nothing else. She hated it. She hated them. She hated whatever out there had cursed her into this half-life of pain and loss. She hated that she couldn't escape, that even death by her own hoof would result in returning as a new little life. She hated it; she hated them, she hated herself.

A soft sigh fluttered past honey lips.

Her gaze turned back to the sky, wishing for that first life, so long ago, when such a scene would take her breath away, striped pelt shining in the early sun, tiny paws digging at the dirt to get to the roots, as the herd of prehistoric horses kept close for safety in numbers against the long-toothed predator cats. Those days had been simple, those first days, before she'd learned the truth, before she'd realized she was a curse, destined to love and lose on repeat. Destined never to be truly happy with the knowledge that any romance made would be gone in a moment - a cycle of never-ending death for her loved ones while she would come back. again. and again. and again. and again.

Somewhere along the way, she stopped caring.

Words jolted her from her thoughts, a greeting that had the mare stiffen, purple eyes cutting quickly to the one who spoke from a distance. His smile was welcoming, but his countenance warned her guard. She'd recognize the look of power anywhere. The stench of rulership, the might of those who governed others. She'd worn that very look in multiple lifetimes when she'd still tried to do good with this odd gift, tried to help others. Her parents had spoken quietly about a new leader to the realm; she was waiting for when they'd introduce themselves, her, to the lead - if they ever would present her, their hidden blessing, shared to only the topmost tier of society, where parties of grandeur where nothing more than status symbols and a means to prove superiority to the others in the class, and her parents loved using her as their greatest card of value, how their patron goddess had gifted them a gift so precious that the Dusk itself blessed it.

Her parents didn't like her meeting others without their approval.

It's why she threw caution to the wind and approached, catching his scent with her silent steps, associating it with the scent that clung to the land, the scent of the one who ruled the domain; she'd been right. But then again, it was rare for her to be wrong. She had too many life experiences not to be an expert at reading people, reading situations. Her guard remained up, her expression shuttered, cautious, "Is it not foolish to greet a stranger so warmly, to invite them to join you? I could be a spy or a being with harmful intent." She chided quietly, her voice low, full of wisdom her age didn't explain. Her gaze swept past him, turning up towards the sky, but that shut-down expression remained unmoved, untouched, closed off. "You are the king of Terrastella, are you not? My parents had whispered of an exchange of power. I am Asta Unn Stendahl, Heir to the House Stendahl." Her gaze didn't move away from the sunrise, even as she fell quiet after her introduction. She never could look away once she let herself stare into it. It reminded her too much of younger times, earlier lives when she wasn't so jaded, so detached. Bittersweet memories of innocent days gone past. Sunrises didn't steal her breath anymore . . . but it didn't stop her from loving to watch them.

It was the real reason she snuck away in the early morning, after all.

FROM THE MOUTH
INSIDE THE MIND
@Rhone
Notes:: Sorry this took so long - but muse is back and I managed to get this old cranky laptop kinda working!