08-25-2017, 10:55 PM
The air is colder now as it races across the tops of the frothy waves.
He shivers as a fine mist of it sprays across his back and brushes his legs. The smell of the sea has long since become a part of him (layers and layers of it dried upon his monochrome coat as the year spun itself out) but each new application is like a homecoming. How long had he yearned for the water while land-locked on a moving, swaying ocean of grass? And now, here it is sprawled out before him like a lost lover - his from hoof to horizon.
But even as he had baptized himself in the blank space under the surface that first day in Nerine, Buck wasn’t sure he would stay. Even as he washed ashore, pitted and wasting through like so much driftwood, he didn’t know if the gripping sand would stay his feet. He had been gifted here. He had gained a sister he had no knowledge of. He had added bruises and cuts to paint and mark his body further in that same sister’s fighting pits. He had found peace, even, he wagered. Solace in the slow drip of the sun into the sea every night. Peace is all he’s ever wanted, all he’s ever strived for.
Peace is terribly boring.
But he doesn’t have the heart to leave and seek out mischief himself. Perhaps the sand has gotten to him, after all this time spent losing his toes under the tide. This is a strong place, Buckthorn can feel it to his core. It is made up of iron women and competent men (if the gladiator matches are any indication). And though he’s mostly kept to himself this past year, he’s never been made to feel like he doesn’t belong. The stallion’s deep pull to the ocean isn’t enough to keep him here, though. He needs a reason to stay, and he hasn’t found it yet.
A dark-bellied cloud passes over the sinking sun and draws his gaze heavenward. There will be a storm tonight, he thinks. A deep soaking rain to wash the shells of the hermit crabs, to fill the dips of the dunes with clean water, to cleanse him of his salt-soaked smell. The best time to slip away unnoticed, he tries to convince himself. But even as he thinks it, he sighs.
He shivers as a fine mist of it sprays across his back and brushes his legs. The smell of the sea has long since become a part of him (layers and layers of it dried upon his monochrome coat as the year spun itself out) but each new application is like a homecoming. How long had he yearned for the water while land-locked on a moving, swaying ocean of grass? And now, here it is sprawled out before him like a lost lover - his from hoof to horizon.
But even as he had baptized himself in the blank space under the surface that first day in Nerine, Buck wasn’t sure he would stay. Even as he washed ashore, pitted and wasting through like so much driftwood, he didn’t know if the gripping sand would stay his feet. He had been gifted here. He had gained a sister he had no knowledge of. He had added bruises and cuts to paint and mark his body further in that same sister’s fighting pits. He had found peace, even, he wagered. Solace in the slow drip of the sun into the sea every night. Peace is all he’s ever wanted, all he’s ever strived for.
Peace is terribly boring.
But he doesn’t have the heart to leave and seek out mischief himself. Perhaps the sand has gotten to him, after all this time spent losing his toes under the tide. This is a strong place, Buckthorn can feel it to his core. It is made up of iron women and competent men (if the gladiator matches are any indication). And though he’s mostly kept to himself this past year, he’s never been made to feel like he doesn’t belong. The stallion’s deep pull to the ocean isn’t enough to keep him here, though. He needs a reason to stay, and he hasn’t found it yet.
A dark-bellied cloud passes over the sinking sun and draws his gaze heavenward. There will be a storm tonight, he thinks. A deep soaking rain to wash the shells of the hermit crabs, to fill the dips of the dunes with clean water, to cleanse him of his salt-soaked smell. The best time to slip away unnoticed, he tries to convince himself. But even as he thinks it, he sighs.