one sword out of many.
Why did he always dream of darkness?
He almost longed for the nightmares of his foalhood, where at least he could process his anxious days away. Now, it was nothingness that he saw from the time his eyes closed until they crept back open, fighting heaviness that proclaimed his restlessness. One might argue that he was simply forgetting, but he would argue back for they were vividly dark and lasting and holding him hostage in his sleep. He tried to contrive meaning from them, but reason failed to explain one. Reason failed him more and more these days. It was not the old, reliable friend he was used to.
These were the sullen thoughts he tried to ban as he roused for the day. Blyse inhaled deeply as he rolled his shoulders back, little pops and cracks rewarding his stretch and flooding his limbs with warmth and comfort. Then he exhaled and clouds of his warm breath turned white as they greeted the cool morning air. Now that was an old friend come home—the cold. Even though the buds were in bloom, the mornings still had a biting chill this high in the mountains to remind you of the altitude. He welcomed its bite. After all, he had to cross that blasted desert for the first (and he sincerely hoped only) time the days before. He could stand to never see sand for what remain of his part-lived life. In fact, he was especially resentful towards the sun for bearing down on his back so relentless all that time. Perhaps it wasn’t all that strange he dreamed of darkness.
He has almost gathered enough senses to begin his day when the crack of a limb put him on guard. He snapped his eyes toward the sound and peered untrustingly in to the thicket. He quietly squared himself, ivory hooves as gentle on the earth as his steady breath. He stayed silent, beckoning the sound to come again.
@Isra // ugh, I chose. We’re not too far from home, at least.
