From my breast the cold heart taking,
Give it to Belerma's care
Six months are soon to pass me by. Six months and still no sign of hope or rescue. I’m left to grow and discover things on my own time and, in the span of life thus given to me, so far I’ve discovered this: waiting for your own story to begin was about as useless as tits on a fish.
When dawn begins to lighten the sky I know it’s time to head out. Uncurling, I trade a sable black fur coat for a plain, muted brown. Single color switches were a thing of minor effort, now. I could fade from black to white with the speediness of a careful inhale, though multiple colors like bay or paint still evaded my grasp. If I attempted it, one color would seep into the next and break uniformity or pattern, rendering the effect useless and rather ugly. “Perhaps in time.” I think with the stretch of my crystalline wings, “Or perhaps never.”
It didn’t matter to me. Changing something as narcissistic as one’s appearance was a meager party trick, in the grand scheme of life and power. The only good that came of it were other’s enjoyment at watching the painters transition. “Hey!” Another foal cries out, giving attention to my early rise, “Where’re you going?”
“Does it matter?” I reply, not even bothering to turn my head and look at the offending baby. No one else questions me. “I’ll be back, anyways.” I think, shuffling ahead into the yawning daylight to make tracks through the playground. No foal as young as I would be brave enough or stupid enough to attempt an overnight stay in the wilds. “Death lingers out there.”
But that won’t stop me from living in the now, and right now I’m breaching the borders of the Meadow as daybreak offers her own soft strokes of color to our world. As a plain little brown thing with nearly invisible wings, I’ll be just another spot on the great canvas of life.
Unless, for some reason, I’m rooted out as an easy target.
Rey
