12-27-2015, 11:05 PM
Moss had seen the faraway look in his eyes, and she disliked the thought of interrupting him as he sinks deep into a place she cannot follow but she grows weary of the hustle and bustle of the field. Her heart longs for quieter spaces, like wherever it is that they both go when they do not look at each other but still end up deep inside themselves - that space behind their eyes that is far reaching and almost searching for something that isn’t there. She keeps one ear on him, listening - always listening, so that she is not surprised by his neigh or the way he begins to romp at her side, overcome by the playful antics of a colt, though it is clear he is no colt - the brawny heft of him says as much. His prancing display is infectious and she cannot remember the last time she leapt and cavorted so freely - it would have been at her mother’s side, of that she is sure, and under her father’s careful watch but now she is free to revel next to him, careless and happy in their shared understanding of one another.
Then she is struck still and dumb by his unexpected nip, only for a moment until her own instinct soothes her bruised mind, telling her it is the way of stallions and mares - that he must nip to lay claim to her, and his mark had been gentler than others would have been. She moves at his nudging insistence, instinct once again kicking in and telling her that her stallion desired her to step forth and she does, her pace similar to his until he moves into a canter. Moss is a little slow to follow him, watching how the muscles bunch and gather beneath the painted flesh and how the light plays over his fur as they move together down the trails. Her face is alight with an exuberance that seems to echo his, and she feels it all the way down to her bones. Leaves crunch underfoot as they remain in the trees, the forest branching out and away from them as she trails him, having fallen back to gaze wonderingly at the beauty of the land. She thinks that he has chosen well for a place to start a herd in, that he can do no better than this because it is full of secrets and promise.
It occurs to her then, that the time is upon them and that by rights, nature should run its due course and she ought to grow fat with foal but all too soon, she avoids his advances and remains barren for another season. Moss didn’t fear him, or fear growing fat with foal either, but she had simply never given it much thought really. She knew it wasn’t right to deny him his stallion’s right to breed her but she kept her distance despite his gentle whickering pleas and his darling touches that were altogether too tender for the likes of him, all feral and focused. Maybe next season, she thinks, daunted by the prospect of being a mother but certain that under his care, she’ll blossom into the kind of mare she could be for him - loyal (he’s put roots down in her already, she knows this), good and true, and above all else - capable of ensuring his bloodline for years to come. She just balked a little this season, unsure of it all after everything else but she comes to him, at season’s end and winter’s beginning and lays her head upon his back, entirely too trusting.
Then she is struck still and dumb by his unexpected nip, only for a moment until her own instinct soothes her bruised mind, telling her it is the way of stallions and mares - that he must nip to lay claim to her, and his mark had been gentler than others would have been. She moves at his nudging insistence, instinct once again kicking in and telling her that her stallion desired her to step forth and she does, her pace similar to his until he moves into a canter. Moss is a little slow to follow him, watching how the muscles bunch and gather beneath the painted flesh and how the light plays over his fur as they move together down the trails. Her face is alight with an exuberance that seems to echo his, and she feels it all the way down to her bones. Leaves crunch underfoot as they remain in the trees, the forest branching out and away from them as she trails him, having fallen back to gaze wonderingly at the beauty of the land. She thinks that he has chosen well for a place to start a herd in, that he can do no better than this because it is full of secrets and promise.
It occurs to her then, that the time is upon them and that by rights, nature should run its due course and she ought to grow fat with foal but all too soon, she avoids his advances and remains barren for another season. Moss didn’t fear him, or fear growing fat with foal either, but she had simply never given it much thought really. She knew it wasn’t right to deny him his stallion’s right to breed her but she kept her distance despite his gentle whickering pleas and his darling touches that were altogether too tender for the likes of him, all feral and focused. Maybe next season, she thinks, daunted by the prospect of being a mother but certain that under his care, she’ll blossom into the kind of mare she could be for him - loyal (he’s put roots down in her already, she knows this), good and true, and above all else - capable of ensuring his bloodline for years to come. She just balked a little this season, unsure of it all after everything else but she comes to him, at season’s end and winter’s beginning and lays her head upon his back, entirely too trusting.