in a holding pattern // to find myself

[Elindor]

Lonely. She's been lonely for as long as she can remember.

She's comfortable with her own company. She has to be. But as she stretches her neck out to drink from the small stream, her mouth is dry with misuse. She hasn't spoken to another living being in so long.

As the foliage parts and she steps into the meadow, she sees other horses, their tails flicking lazily in the sun, weak as it is in winter. She shrinks back into the trees, trying in vain to blend her pale coat into the darkness.
After a few deep breaths, she steps out again, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. Many of the others here were surely of ancient Beqanna lines, but she had none to boast of. A foundling who has almost forgotten how to talk, starved for contact and nourishment.

She finds a quiet corner of the field and takes her first bite of grass.

E L I N D O R

god knows, I am dissonance
waiting to be swiftly pulled into tune