He wakes on the shore of the river with a blinding headache and no memory of dying.
He blinks, slowly, trying to orient himself. There is a river, rushing past. He is at the edge of it, wet from head to tail, and muddy now too, from where he’s lain. He gets up, moving cautiously, expecting his body to ache, to have some remnant of what had happened, but there is nothing. He himself has no memory of what had happened, of why he had been in the river, or even really what he’s doing here at all.
He remembers an eagle and looks around, as if it will appear. But there is nothing, only silence, the gentle movement of other horses off in the distance.
The sun is warm on his dark, unblemished skin. The gray that had began to touch his muzzle and mane is gone, he is young again, except he doesn’t know it’s again, he only knows he feels disoriented and lost and this place is familiar but not.
He moves away from the river. It causes a deep unease when he looks at it, though he can’t say why. There’s a lot he can’t say right now.
He keeps moving. Soon the sound of the river is gone. Eventually he is in a meadow and he wants it to be familiar. It almost is. Almost.
He is dry now, although his legs still bear the river’s dried mud. He does his best to scrape it off – he doesn’t like the reminder – and the dirt fills his mouth. He’s still dirty. He lifts his head and swallows, trying to clear his mind, trying to settle himself, trying to figure out what’s happened, and why he’s here at all.
@[Agetta]