He remembers the shuddering of the earth, the groaning of the plates as they crash together and separate, rumbling hungrily beneath his hooves. He had been standing in the ocean with the water pressing against his chest (he had felt truly alive in that moment, the frigid dark waters soothing the churning rage that dwells inside him), but it was fleeting. It was a strange feeling as the water begins to sink lower, rushing out from beneath him like someone had unplugged a drain. For a moment he merely watches curiously, his head tilted slightly in confusion as the world behind him shatters and cracks. Then, with more power than he had ever felt, the water pulls his legs from underneath him.
The weightlessness he felt was nothing like he had ever experienced. It was dark, cold womb enveloping him and though his heart rate increases with adrenaline, fear was not at the forefront of his mind. The water was where he belonged. He was ready to sink down into the darkness.
He had awoken with open wounds from the tide scraping him against coral and rock, sand gritting inside his flesh painfully. The salt had dried there, stinging every moment he tried to move. The beach he had been brought to was bright and quiet, the ocean’s water gently lapping at his legs. Moments later he was with another colt, nearly his age, as well as Azazelle. He wanted to rest, to sleep in the darkness of a cave or underbrush but instead he was forced to stay out in the open, with the sun’s rays burning his skin and the fierceness of anger burning in his belly.
Shortly he had left, though he knew he would be returning. Ischia’s ocean attracted him and he could not stay away – no matter the present company.
Maugrim limps his way to freshwater, his wounds burning and aching for relief. It takes him a long time to travel to the river, he had lost track of time as the sun moves through the sky. He’s thankful that no one seems to be interested in him – though who would want to try to talk to a yearling who was covered with open, festering wounds that stretch and break with every step? Besides, the scowl on the young boy’s face was hopefully enough to keep others away.
Everyone has stayed away from him since he was just a foal. This is something that is not unfamiliar to him.
Maugrim does not hesitate when he reaches the river; he enters without a thought, the water immediately cooling his hot, burning flesh. Blood, both dried and freshly pouring, stain the clear water. He sighs with relief, a shiver running through his spine. He lowers his head, putting his muzzle beneath the water and drinking deeply. Without a thought, he asks the water to rise up to meet him, sending a small and comforting wave across his back and neck. The water soaks into his skin – he was beginning to feel better.
It’s possibly hours that pass as he wades in the river, ever so often making the water splash against him to soothe his wounds.
The dark evergreen and pearlescent yearling decides to come closer to the bank, his legs wearily bringing him to the shoreline. As he pulls himself out of the water, he feels weaker. It was harder to carry his own weight without the aide the water gave him. He heaves himself onto the sand, standing weakly as the water laps at his fetlocks. The river’s water runs in rivulets down his legs, pooling at his hooves and his short mane plasters to his neck. His head is low as the springtime breeze begins to dry him. With one eye lazily open, the tired and bruised yearling attempts to nap.
m a u g r i m.
idk what this is. forgive me.
@[Levi]