06-19-2018, 08:30 PM
The sound of hoof beats follows my call, and I turn toward them, my expression hopeful. I am not disappointed, for Arthas emerges from the shadows shortly afterward. He looks the same; unchanged from our first meeting nearly a year ago.
Had it really only been a year?
It feels like decades have passed. Even as I move toward him, my body protests, and I feel a thousand centuries old. I am grateful for the darkness, for the nightfall hides the scars and bruises that litter my coat and lends a silvery glow to the paleness of my coat. I know that I am not the bright-eyed adolescent that Arthas had given away, but I am a woman grown now. I know I am desirable, but I am no longer a stranger to the reaction that it stirs in men.
When I reach toward him it is with hesitance. My blue muzzle touches his cheek as though fearful he might disappear. He does not; he remains comfortingly solid.
"Nothing's wrong." I tell him. At least nothing that he can change. There is no use hoping for a reversal of time; though I find myself wishing the year had not passed as I stand there beside him. "I just wanted to see you..." I hesitate, unsure how to proceed. How does a mare ask a stallion for what I want?
And do I want it?
The memory of Kwartz is still fresh - the way he had made me cry out in pain and (worse) in pleasure. I shift uncomfortably at the embarrassing memory, but I do my best to disguise it. It doesn't matter, I remind myself as I take another step forward and press my cheek against his dappled neck. My feelings are not important.
"I missed you."
Had it really only been a year?
It feels like decades have passed. Even as I move toward him, my body protests, and I feel a thousand centuries old. I am grateful for the darkness, for the nightfall hides the scars and bruises that litter my coat and lends a silvery glow to the paleness of my coat. I know that I am not the bright-eyed adolescent that Arthas had given away, but I am a woman grown now. I know I am desirable, but I am no longer a stranger to the reaction that it stirs in men.
When I reach toward him it is with hesitance. My blue muzzle touches his cheek as though fearful he might disappear. He does not; he remains comfortingly solid.
"Nothing's wrong." I tell him. At least nothing that he can change. There is no use hoping for a reversal of time; though I find myself wishing the year had not passed as I stand there beside him. "I just wanted to see you..." I hesitate, unsure how to proceed. How does a mare ask a stallion for what I want?
And do I want it?
The memory of Kwartz is still fresh - the way he had made me cry out in pain and (worse) in pleasure. I shift uncomfortably at the embarrassing memory, but I do my best to disguise it. It doesn't matter, I remind myself as I take another step forward and press my cheek against his dappled neck. My feelings are not important.
"I missed you."
