This darkness is different. It is like a soft static, a buzzing tone whining in her ears, she loses herself in it, becomes light, becomes nothing. The icy saltwater that felt so heavy in her lungs evaporates. Or, maybe it doesn't, but she doesn't care about it anymore. There is a spreading warmth crawling over her skin like honey. She opens her eyes and the light is red and blue and gold and green, shining and effervescent. Her mother draws near, gentle and so full of love that white light emanates from the cracks between her black patches.
But her eyes are yellow.
Mama's eyes are not yellow! Beryl thinks, indignantly, and suddenly the world breaks apart. Suddenly, she begins to choke and the warmth that spread over her turns to flames and ice. Suddenly, the wind bites at her soft foal coat, slicing through it to the wet, red, skin. There is salt and blood on her lips and water gushing in an endless stream from her nostrils, puddling beneath her where she lies on the frozen ground. The wind is howling and her fur is freezing, coughs and sobs and shivers wracking her small body. Her eyes do not open easily, lashes crusted with ice, and she tucks her nose against her chest for warmth, finding none. She wants to go back to the dream of dying, to that warm place. She'll forgive her mother's yellow eyes, this time. It's okay. Yellow is a fine color.
But she can't get back there. There is nothing but ice and pain and a strange numbness that settles in her legs. Her neck feels limp and tired, too tired to lift her head any longer, but she struggles to do so, weaving. Her body shivers involuntarily, trying in vain to warm itself, and she is so exhausted, but her ears twist at the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. Someone is coming. Or something. The filly shudders and lets her heavy head fall against the hard ground, curled ears pinning to her poll as she tries to disappear. Though she is shaded by the boughs of an evergreen pregnant with snow, her breath rasps too loud in her ears, her heart pounding like a woodpecker knocking on a hollow tree, she is sure she has been heard. Brown eyes shut tight, unwilling to watch Death find her, unable to run from it.
Help me!
yes
The shadows creep forward, yellow-eyed and without consistent shape. Some are merely wisps, others are strange, tentacled things. One resembles the alien-horses that hunt the canyons of Pangea. They are all silent and undulating, merging together then separating again with an extra head, a third eye. They are the kind of monsters that a child would think of and they surround the tree, staring and sinister sentries.
But her eyes are yellow.
Mama's eyes are not yellow! Beryl thinks, indignantly, and suddenly the world breaks apart. Suddenly, she begins to choke and the warmth that spread over her turns to flames and ice. Suddenly, the wind bites at her soft foal coat, slicing through it to the wet, red, skin. There is salt and blood on her lips and water gushing in an endless stream from her nostrils, puddling beneath her where she lies on the frozen ground. The wind is howling and her fur is freezing, coughs and sobs and shivers wracking her small body. Her eyes do not open easily, lashes crusted with ice, and she tucks her nose against her chest for warmth, finding none. She wants to go back to the dream of dying, to that warm place. She'll forgive her mother's yellow eyes, this time. It's okay. Yellow is a fine color.
But she can't get back there. There is nothing but ice and pain and a strange numbness that settles in her legs. Her neck feels limp and tired, too tired to lift her head any longer, but she struggles to do so, weaving. Her body shivers involuntarily, trying in vain to warm itself, and she is so exhausted, but her ears twist at the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. Someone is coming. Or something. The filly shudders and lets her heavy head fall against the hard ground, curled ears pinning to her poll as she tries to disappear. Though she is shaded by the boughs of an evergreen pregnant with snow, her breath rasps too loud in her ears, her heart pounding like a woodpecker knocking on a hollow tree, she is sure she has been heard. Brown eyes shut tight, unwilling to watch Death find her, unable to run from it.
Help me!
yes
The shadows creep forward, yellow-eyed and without consistent shape. Some are merely wisps, others are strange, tentacled things. One resembles the alien-horses that hunt the canyons of Pangea. They are all silent and undulating, merging together then separating again with an extra head, a third eye. They are the kind of monsters that a child would think of and they surround the tree, staring and sinister sentries.
Beryl
Litotes x Mehendi
@ [Leilan] I don't know what I am doing, but here I am to fulfill your quest requirements. It took me all day.