12-21-2020, 08:28 PM
@[Clegane]
Photo by Josiah Lewis from Pexels
As always, Andromake dreams. She never did before, as a child. As a child, life was just as it was before her; something torrid and precise, ready to be put in order. What was there to dream about or imagine, anyway? She had everything she wanted from the moment she was born. Not deprived of hardship- no, there was always hardship involved involved with being a mare. The second born daughter borne of a love match with the king. Then, later, a wife herself.
But now she dreams. Her imagine carries her away, always, from this place that is too soft with clover too sweet. The wind carries the voices of her friends and the stream carries the laughter of her sisters. When she dreams she is never alone, she is never forced to be anyone at all. She is the daughter at her mother's teat, the mate of her stallion's heart. She reminds herself that she is lucky to have known love at all, and knows that she would never surrender it, but the power of it is only apparent when she imagines that she can almost see his face through the trees beyond the meadow. She nver goes toward them, never shatters the illusion, but instead watches and dreams that she does it anyway.
She is gazing off into the distance when she realises that she has nearly collided with another horse. Or rather, they have nearly collided with her. She turns her head to see a stallion. The scent of horse hits her over the quiet breeze, and her ears immediately twitch in anxiety. Not all men have been kind to her.
Andromake observes him cautiously, sees patterned skin and a pair of wings that reek of power. Power that she herself lacks.
But he does not assert dominance and does not establish control. Instead, he apologises for crashing into her.
It has been so long since she talked to another of her kind. Of her age. Even if they are brilliant where she is not, they are still like her. Perhaps this is why her voice nearly cracks as she calls out, "It's alright! I'm not hurt." Stupid, she thinks. Stupid for one once so skilled in the art of court. Now she can barely introduce herself. "I'm Andromake."
But now she dreams. Her imagine carries her away, always, from this place that is too soft with clover too sweet. The wind carries the voices of her friends and the stream carries the laughter of her sisters. When she dreams she is never alone, she is never forced to be anyone at all. She is the daughter at her mother's teat, the mate of her stallion's heart. She reminds herself that she is lucky to have known love at all, and knows that she would never surrender it, but the power of it is only apparent when she imagines that she can almost see his face through the trees beyond the meadow. She nver goes toward them, never shatters the illusion, but instead watches and dreams that she does it anyway.
She is gazing off into the distance when she realises that she has nearly collided with another horse. Or rather, they have nearly collided with her. She turns her head to see a stallion. The scent of horse hits her over the quiet breeze, and her ears immediately twitch in anxiety. Not all men have been kind to her.
Andromake observes him cautiously, sees patterned skin and a pair of wings that reek of power. Power that she herself lacks.
But he does not assert dominance and does not establish control. Instead, he apologises for crashing into her.
It has been so long since she talked to another of her kind. Of her age. Even if they are brilliant where she is not, they are still like her. Perhaps this is why her voice nearly cracks as she calls out, "It's alright! I'm not hurt." Stupid, she thinks. Stupid for one once so skilled in the art of court. Now she can barely introduce herself. "I'm Andromake."
Andromake