09-12-2016, 08:51 PM
They chase one another in and out of the steam.
Spear snorts; Spark has nipped as his muzzle and spun away on a quick heel to outrun him amongst the burning lava beds. He gives chase to her, trying to catch her pale tail in his teeth - if he can, he’ll tug her to a stop then deliver a nip of his own to her flank. Their games will continue, and thoughts of the scolding black mare fade to the back of their minds; she is not their mother, never will be, and no one else seems to mind the fact that they are children and given much to flights of fancy as they leap and run about. Maybe it is because their laughter is infectious, happy even, in a way that few have been lately.
Spear & Spark
They leap over the crisscrossed streams of lava.
Their laughter tumbles after them, boisterous and bold - like they are.
Eventually the games of chase and tag cease, and not necessarily because they have exhausted themselves so thoroughly as to be in need of a nap. They think back to how the black mare scolded them with her eyes, and though they tell themselves it is only because she is jealous of the fact that they are Offspring’s children from a mare that is not his beloved Isle, it is the first time they have ever encountered something other than a smile from the more adult horses amongst them. Just remembering that look kills their play and they stop beside the spring, cooling their feathered legs in it as they bend their heads close together. If they talk, it is in hushed murmurs that only the two of them can hear.
Then there is quiet, and Spark rests her black-capped head on her brother’s broadening back. Each of them is growing up, faster than they care to think about. What will happen when Spear is a stallion and Spark is a mare? Neither of them makes mention of it, of if there will still be time to touch their noses together just breathing one another’s scent in and nothing else, because the world fell away when it was just the two of them, like it has always been. Neither of them wants to think that there may come a time when they will not bring their heads close, rub their faces together, or throw a shoulder into the other’s side in careless play. Such thoughts are too grown up for them, and they are still just children…
Spear snorts; Spark has nipped as his muzzle and spun away on a quick heel to outrun him amongst the burning lava beds. He gives chase to her, trying to catch her pale tail in his teeth - if he can, he’ll tug her to a stop then deliver a nip of his own to her flank. Their games will continue, and thoughts of the scolding black mare fade to the back of their minds; she is not their mother, never will be, and no one else seems to mind the fact that they are children and given much to flights of fancy as they leap and run about. Maybe it is because their laughter is infectious, happy even, in a way that few have been lately.