05-28-2015, 04:13 PM
Silently she watches. Her deep honey eyes gaze across the horizon, watching the figures and shapes melt and change. They come and they go, the linger and they pass by, all before her restless eyes. The stocky pony-mare is perched high above them, atop a mountainous sand dune she laboured long to climb. From this vantage point, she can perceive a good amount of the kingdom. She has her back to the empty quarter, the endless expanse of dunes, often left unattended and empty. Why watch what is not there - her focus falls upon the oasis, the heart of the kingdom, the gathering place. She watches her people there as they shift, move.
They are so fast. Their movements blur and change within a blink of her eye. She feels slow, sluggish in comparison. How did the great Gods, in all their wisdom, choose such a slow, old, worn creature as herself to guide them? Clearly the greater powers know something she does not, or they are taunting her, cackling in their golden halls and behind their thick walls as she blindly leads.
The buckskin is alone on her perch. Her mane blusters over her face, a hot desert wind blowing it wildly. The feather, gifted by the gods, stands out with it's white ends against the dark ebony of her mane, not displaced despite the restless, unrelenting wind. She must be steadfast, like that feather - gentle, light, but firm.
Slowly, the pony turns to face the dying rays of the ending day. She squints to better perceive the blood red sunset, the rays twisting around her form, absorbed into a autumn halo around her figure. Soon, the night will fall. With the darkness, her powers will fade for another day, longer in these winter nights. Thank god they have Cam and Yael, she thinks, for otherwise the desert would be unprotected at night. There had been a time when she had enjoyed the sunset, enjoyed the chance that night would bring to experience the mortal world once more.
Pevensie isn't just any horse now, not any more. She is not just a gifted immortal who can play tricks with the sun. She is a Queen.
They are so fast. Their movements blur and change within a blink of her eye. She feels slow, sluggish in comparison. How did the great Gods, in all their wisdom, choose such a slow, old, worn creature as herself to guide them? Clearly the greater powers know something she does not, or they are taunting her, cackling in their golden halls and behind their thick walls as she blindly leads.
The buckskin is alone on her perch. Her mane blusters over her face, a hot desert wind blowing it wildly. The feather, gifted by the gods, stands out with it's white ends against the dark ebony of her mane, not displaced despite the restless, unrelenting wind. She must be steadfast, like that feather - gentle, light, but firm.
Slowly, the pony turns to face the dying rays of the ending day. She squints to better perceive the blood red sunset, the rays twisting around her form, absorbed into a autumn halo around her figure. Soon, the night will fall. With the darkness, her powers will fade for another day, longer in these winter nights. Thank god they have Cam and Yael, she thinks, for otherwise the desert would be unprotected at night. There had been a time when she had enjoyed the sunset, enjoyed the chance that night would bring to experience the mortal world once more.
Pevensie isn't just any horse now, not any more. She is not just a gifted immortal who can play tricks with the sun. She is a Queen.