hold me down [any]

[Pollock]

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray

If she does not find out what will foment her grasp on her invisibility now, then time will surely do it for her.
When she fills out around those girlish bones and she grows into her legs, that connection between her mind and her power will develop. Nerve ending by nerve ending; fusing together by flesh, synapses and grey cells. Her wait will be more protracted than his had been. And in that interlude, without her means of protection well trained, she may find herself needing of it. A moment of naked vulnerability – he could see to it. To punish her for her luck, and her potential for its stubbornness. He may not be the only one. She would be fortunate if he was, because she is bright and one day will be she will be pretty, and all too forward.

Fear had not compelled her like it had him. But maybe the force that gifted him at birth had known from the start the part dread would play in his life. Maybe, even though her first hours have been held before an audience of fear, it will not permeate her life like it had his.

It could be something else entirely that defines her and ignites her abilities.
Perhaps it will be her self-confidence, one day.
But for now, even he has that in ruination at his feet.
Or else, it is nothing. And she will find she simply slips into that wonderful, empowering cloak like a tiara; a princess, gilded in bright regalia, haughty and indulged by good fortune  – undeserved and squandered.

’I don’t know.’ And he nods, as if he knew the answer all along.
“If you do not know what motivates you, girl, then you must practice. Find someone or something – follow it, but make sure you are unseen – and unheard. If you are noticed, come to me, and I will make sure you are punished for it.” He chuckles darkly, and shifts back on his good hind leg. “Eventually you’ll get it.”

He watches the agitated wag of her tail, and he can appreciate the girl’s effort to keep him unaware of her fear. But the weakness in it reeks, and her strength to obscure it is lacking. She is too young, and he can feel it, thick. He can trace its origins. When he retreated, he had left it there to conflict her mind. She cannot yet rise to the occasion of his eye contact; she cannot stand tall. One day, she may find her life depends on the concealment of her emotions.
The palomino stallion does not oblige weakness, not even in her young hours. He lacks any paternal instinct, and almost all apathy, so her youthful condition protects her from his hate, but does not inspire any sensitivity in him. “Look. At. Me,” He growls, and in one unnaturally fast motion, his face is inches from hers, blowing hot and heavy breath around her nostrils. “Could you, if everything depended on it?” For now, it does not. Because he is content to play with her like a mouse, for now.

“Where is your mother, girl?” He wonders what it would take to poison that precious well.
“And what is your name?”
If there is indeed a mare searching wildly for her somewhere, more likely than not, this girl never gave her the chance to call her anything. Such cruelty, for someone so small.


Pollock,
The gift-giver.