11-10-2018, 07:37 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; Their second meeting had been as brief as the first, with no consummation this time (though wracked with desires of all kinds, the particular drive for procreation is no longer so strong upon him). Yet he has thought of her in the time that passed, of the sun on her scales, the way she had looked at him, known him. He’d been too forward, he thinks now, to confess so much to a woman who is all but a stranger (‘I died,’ he said, ‘you’re still so beautiful,’ he said). And in the interim, Beqanna was struck again – disease, this time. He received the warning, the visions, but he did not heed them, did not flee to a safe land. Perhaps it’s foolish, an ideation (he knows he’s already so sick, what are a few physical symptoms, piled atop it?). He has never been particularly frightened of death, after all. He excepts to see illness, here, horses sick or even dying, and he is prepare for that, stone-eyed. He does not expect to see her again – he’d thought, if their paths deigned to cross again, it would be years and years. “Shiya,” he says, greeting, nervous, “how are you?” Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |