atlas,
i hope you know where you're going, but you're just as lost as me
you walk with such conviction and I'm eyes-closed following
The light of the moon was pale, and beaming, a silver array cast across the still heat of the new summer night. A day of sweat coated his golden flesh, and darkened the edges of the pallid, threadbare mauve fabric wrapped uselessly around his throat. Around him, the shoulder-high, untrodden grass scratched, harmless, at his skin; it was cool to the touch in the dark of the night. Mice and voles scurried away from the knife-tip of his hooves; somewhere amongst the underbrush a fox chirped, and a little owl, more prey than predator itself, called from the treeline of a distant copse.
Atlas was the special kind of exhausted gifted only to those exposed to oversocialization. The Dawn Coronation party had left him ragged and seeking peace, and so he escaped, as was his tendency, to be under the bright night of stars. It was a distant memory and yet his mind was still swallowed by the scent of fresh roses and the golden eyes of that morbid beast, his voice like poisoned, hot honey still ringing in his ears. New, pink scars scaled his right shoulder, remnants of his blundering.
Here, though, beneath the cold tin sky, the wild blue indigo was thornless and smelled thick and sweet, and the plain’s sunflowers made for beautiful flower chains and pulled bees to their bright yellow blooms when the sun was up. Here he could breathe without feeling smothered by diplomatic weight or the consequence of untimely friends.
He thought her some sort of prairie bird, at first, a large grouse or mottled, off-hue pheasant. It was only when she fully emerged from the shadows did he recognize her as equine. In the moonlight she glowed pale and sparkled silver; to his credit, he only startled a little bit.
Her countenance screamed young. It made him tired.
“Beg pardon, friend,” he said, his voice quiet so as not to frighten her, “but it is a bit late for wandering, don’t you think?”
Atlas was the special kind of exhausted gifted only to those exposed to oversocialization. The Dawn Coronation party had left him ragged and seeking peace, and so he escaped, as was his tendency, to be under the bright night of stars. It was a distant memory and yet his mind was still swallowed by the scent of fresh roses and the golden eyes of that morbid beast, his voice like poisoned, hot honey still ringing in his ears. New, pink scars scaled his right shoulder, remnants of his blundering.
Here, though, beneath the cold tin sky, the wild blue indigo was thornless and smelled thick and sweet, and the plain’s sunflowers made for beautiful flower chains and pulled bees to their bright yellow blooms when the sun was up. Here he could breathe without feeling smothered by diplomatic weight or the consequence of untimely friends.
He thought her some sort of prairie bird, at first, a large grouse or mottled, off-hue pheasant. It was only when she fully emerged from the shadows did he recognize her as equine. In the moonlight she glowed pale and sparkled silver; to his credit, he only startled a little bit.
Her countenance screamed young. It made him tired.
“Beg pardon, friend,” he said, his voice quiet so as not to frighten her, “but it is a bit late for wandering, don’t you think?”
@Willoughby | "Speech."
