And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand There were many, many times in his life where Apollo had been terrified. It had started young, following the death of his parents and the bickering of his herd. From there, it turned into an encounter with a monstrous sea-beast upon a hot summer day, a brush with a growling, snapping pack of wolves, followed by battles, by invasions into distant herds. 'Terror' was a shrill, unstable cry of 'Apollo, face me, coward!' bellowed amidst a thunderstorm by the devil herself, 'fear' were shadows and infections robbing away the sanity of the ones he loved and turning them into ravenous wraiths, 'heart-stopping' was the insurmountable grief of the loss of his loved ones, so, so, so many of them, Phaedra, Andreas, Midas, Lakota, and the ultimate, inevitable, damning end of the world. 'Pass through or die.' There had been no ultimatum, no other choice. He could have stood with his brothers and sisters and fought, could have died at their sides, but for what? A land already doomed and rotting? A soldier he had never been, and a soldier he would never be, but Apollo would never have the courage to fight, and die, for something that held him no promise. Helovia was dead. Gone. Forsaken. There was nothing left, and he had passed through the Portal with Zola tucked neatly within the leather satchel about his shoulders, praying to Gods now dead and gone that safety would await them on the other side, and now... Now... Honey-brown eyes shot open, wide, bulbous, and rolling. The sound of screams rang in his ears, the stench of panic and death cloying his nose. He was frozen, splayed out upon the grass on his side like a dead thing, legs flailing, limbs thrashing, trying to find his footing but for some reason, he could not seem to find the ground. The sound of screams continued, until Apollo realized with a start that he was the one making such a terrible sound, shouting until his throat was raw. Terror. Fear. Horror. All at once, the Merciful stallion grew still and silent, flailing legs collapsing into a heap upon the soft grass. He lay there, chest heaving, monochrome hide drenched in sweat, reeking of fright and dismay. Fever cloaked his skin, burning hot to the touch, but slowly the overo's mind seemed to settle within his body, awareness seeping into his pores, the cushion of soft grasses seeming to hold him in a soothing embrace and doing wonders to calm him, to reaffirm that he was, indeed, alive. Was this... The Rift? Had he made it? Were they safe? "... Zola?" The cracked, warbled question hardly escaped his maw, but nonetheless, Apollo was startled by the sound of his own voice. Mentally he searched for the blind feline, reaching through the mental void of love and adoration, the mental bond connected in both heart and mind to try and seek out his precious ball of earth, but... There was nothing. Instead of Zola's warmth, her love, her soothing voice reverberating in his ears, Apollo was met with the cold, heart-numbing black void of nothing. That was true terror. Never before had he felt such fear. No event in his life could even compare to the fear that he felt then, unable to feel the precious bond with Zola, and so with a desperate wail, uncaring of his physical well-being nor the fever that ravaged him, Apollo hauled himself upright, legs trembling as they lifted his considerable bulk. He wavered but for a moment, legs threatening to give out, but the stallions honey-brown eyes darted frantically around, trying to spot the black cat. "Zola!" Louder, more desperate, terrified. No, no, no... Kaos could take his home, but he could not take his heart. Apollo wouldn't survive it. "Zola!" With growing alarm, he realized that the leather satchel, Zola's carrying satchel, was no longer slung around his shoulders. It was not there, it was gone, not on his body and not on the ground around where he had been crudely deposited, and that meant... It meant... ... Had she not made it through? Was she gone forever? Was she lost, terrified and alone, without her sight to guide the way? No. No. He couldn't think like that. First? Apollo needed to find out where he was. Chills darted along his frame, his sweat beginning to grow cold, but he couldn't simply stand there and do nothing. Maybe she had wandered off? Their bond was severed, meaning that something had happened... But she couldn't be gone, couldn't be dead. Apollo would not accept it, could not accept it. Wide eyes absorbed his surroundings to the best of his abilities, given his reeling thoughts and difficulty focusing, nostrils flaring as though to place the scent all around him. Tall green grasses arose from the earth, sparse trees dotting the otherwise empty prairie. The sun shone to the west, late in the evening but not yet robbing the sky of a beautiful, vibrant blue. It was picturesque, almost. Normal. Nothing like the shadows and wreckage of Helovia. There was a breeze in the air, that soothed the heat of the sun but chilled his feverish skin, and for a brief moment the Merciful stallion wondered if he was dead. Maybe he had died and gone to heaven. Apollo had never believed in heaven, not really, but looking back on it, he would have thought it to look a place like this... But if he was dead, that definitely didn't account for his pain, nor his fever. With considerable strength, the overo took a step forward, pulling his bulk along the grasses, wide eyes desperately seeking some form of familiarity. Please, please... To anyone who's listening. Please let me find her. Let me find someone. When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am |
@Ktulu and others!
