Winter is dawning. The first snow-falls of Beqanna hit the Tundra in late autumn, fresh and beautiful. It is like a postcard at first sight, something awe-inspiringly beautiful. It is the cool solace of the Tundra that draws her in, the promise of the seasons. The little pony-mare steps across the arid grassland, hooves cracking off rocks, pelt ruffled in the icy breeze. It is a blessed relief from the desert heat, a pleasant change from her sand dunes. She feels like a sailor must feel after months adrift, having stepped onto the jetty, glad of a break from the rocking of the sea.
She lowers her muzzle to the rocks, creating a film of condensation upon their glassy surface with her warm breath. Around them, she nibbles at the rough grass, gingerly using her teeth to needle out the best bits. It is tough, course food, food for hardy horses, breeds like hers. The little buckskin part-bred looks the part here, against the backdrop of the Tundra. She feels almost at home, raising her head to breathe in the fresh, crisp air, enjoying the sharp pinch as it hits her lungs.
Happily, the little sun-mare sights. She looks up towards the fluffy white clouds, watching as the snowflakes dance their way slowly back to the earth beneath her feet. How lucky they are at the Tundra, to see the seasons in their full glory. She misses this.
She wonders when they will notice her, the little sun-queen sneaking into their borders. Will they know she is a Queen? Hopefully not, for Pevensie enjoys nothing more than to blend in, to be a normal horse. She waits, enjoying the solitude and the change of scenery until someone will come to interrupt her peaceful thoughts, drag her back from her dreams and into the present. For now though, she is contented. She allows her mind to wander, undisturbed, and soaks in the beauty all about her.
He has long since grown used to the cold. His pale coat grows long and shaggy for most of the year, his massive wings thick with feathers and downy soft. That he has a tendency to spend much of his time in the sky, floating lazily along the icy currents as he monitors the ground far below has only increased his tolerance for the cold. Nonetheless, he remains impressed by those who dare these frigid climes for any length of time. He knows how harsh it can be, how much the frigid winters can sting.
Today is not so bad, considering that winter is fast approaching. The wind is still, allowing the occasional flake of snow to drift onto the ground untouched. Late summer grasses still struggle to persevere, even through the thin blanket of snow that is beginning to cover the earth. This is not what catches his attention however, as he drifts above, surveying the borders. No, it is the mare that walks below, passing through the wall of ice before pausing to nibble at the tough vegetation. She is as bold as brass, showing no apparent concern that she has intruded. She does not announce her presence to the brothers. In fact, she does not appear to have much of an agenda at all. The oddity of the situation hits him then, as he slowly descends from the heavens. He would have approached her regardless, but now he has even more reason to do so, if only to assuage his own curiosity.
He could have approached her unseen, but he does not. There is no reason to. Besides, he blends so perfectly with the landscape already that he hardly needs to become invisible to hide here. His pale coat matches the snow perfectly, except for the slightly darker dapples that grace his flanks and legs. He settles onto the ground a short distance from her with practiced ease, his feet hitting the earth with a soft thud. He tucks his wings neatly into his sides, the action making him suddenly less imposing. He is not a large stallion, nor is he small. He’s rather average, actually. Oh, he is handsome enough, but in this land of beautiful horses, even handsome enough is decidedly… average.
He watches her, dark eyes losing their hard glint as curiosity encroaches. His gaze moves from the tips of her hooves to the tips of her ears, inspecting her thoroughly, silently wondering what had brought her here. Only when he has seen everything that he can does he step forward, slowly circling her. His expression had turned from intense scrutiny to quiet admiration. She is a pretty little mare, and he is a man after all.
Finally he speaks, his voice a quiet rumble as his lips quirk in a hint of a smile.
What have we here?
He pauses for a moment, that hint of amusement sparking in his dark eyes. He has surmised that she is not here on a formal visit. And whatever her business here is, he has decided to make it his own. His next words are light, portraying no hint of reproach. Rather, they are curious, filled with more questions than the words themselves might ask.
Do you know that you are trespassing? There is never a day that goes by that is a good day to die. Hurricane
The little buckskin mare doesn't see him at first. He is a ghost, an illusion against the passing snow, a phantom dancing nimbly in the drift. She too, for the most part, can blend into the snow - however, unlike him, she is outlined with her thick black mane and tail. He will have seen her, far before she has had the chance to lock eyes on him. Pevensie is unconcerned. She cannot fight, not in the traditional sense, as well as other horses. She has her own weapons, far more powerful weapons, at her disposal. True enough, there are far more powerful horses out there, ones that could even remove the gifts bestowed upon her, but she isn't stupid enough to piss those horses off.
Besides, nobody in the Tundra would have any reason to attack a mare on her own, clearly meaning no harm.
The pony-mare clocks him in her vision now, watching as he draws in, drinking in his appearance painted between flurries of snow. She raises her head, snorts a thin wisp of breath, standing her ground as he comes to her. As he closes his wings, placing them back at his sides, her own feather catches the wind and blows across her face. Her ostrich feather, gifted to her by the Gods of the Desert, the ancient Gods of old. She doesn't move, contented to stand side on to him, exposing the full length of her body. He will not attack her, of this she is fairly confident. On the side he faces, he can see her sunlight tattoo, a circle of yellow, rimmed in burnt orange with flames licking off from the centre. He can also see the perfect circle, cut from her left ear, a pristine bullet hole. If ever Pevensie had been beautiful, she was not any longer. She looks wild, maimed by her many years and experiences. Immortality can give everlasting life, but alas, she must carry the scars of her youth for all those long years.
She smiles at him, warm, friendly. Except there is something different about this smile. Here, away from her home, she is carefree. The smile is from the depths of her heart, radiating her happiness, her peace. He moves all about her, see's her scars, her wounds. She doesn't care, she has forgotten they are there after all these long years. They are her, she is them. This is all they'll ever get.
Her ears follow him, her eyes trace his outline, but she doesn't move, wince, waver. She is confident, calm.
"Trespassing? she repeats, a twinkle in her eyes, "I'm only trespassing if nobody wants me to be here. I can leave, if you'd like." She looks him dead in the eye, firm, unwavering in her conviction, "but then you wouldn't know. Who I am, why I'm here, what I want." She takes a step toward him, smiling her gentle smile, petite hooves tucked neatly together.
In the Tundra, the wind is always blowing. It is something he has long since grown used to. But as that ever present wind sends a cold gust, it blows the feather across her face. That curious, intriguing feather. His dark eyes catch upon it, wondering how it had come to be attached to her mane. He does not ask though. He will, but not now. Now, he has more important questions to ask.
It is rare for him to be so fascinated by a horse. Most of them are so predictable, so easy to read. But even though her emotions cross her face as plain as day, she surprises him. He is close enough to catch her scent now, and though the wind dances about them, she still smells of the sun. Of heat and sand. And that only intrigues him more. What is a mare, who he can only guess is from the desert, doing this far north, in the coldest regions of Beqanna? Especially if she is not here on official business?
These are the thoughts racing through his mind when she smiles. He instantly likes that smile, so happy and carefree. It does something to him, to his gut. Something he is not entirely sure he appreciates. He should not be so affected by a simple smile.
For now, he ignores it, that odd feeling. He would examine it later. Instead, he focuses on her, on her words. His eyes continue to roam over her body, examining the sun emblazoned on her hindquarters, the scars, the feather. Her words tantalize him. It is with those words that she has him hooked. He has never been able to resist a mystery.
The words draw him in. He halts at an uncomfortably close distance, looming, intense, but not threatening. Not to her, the fascinating little mare that had reeled him in all too easily. He smiles then, the words leaving his lips almost without thought.
You have me there. Stay. Tell me.
The final words are spoken next to her ear, a plea and a demand all in one. There is never a day that goes by that is a good day to die. Hurricane
He comes closer. She can see the muscles rippling underneath the skin, flexing and stretching with each stride he takes. Pevensie can't remember the last time a stallion came this close to her, she can't remember the last time she shared her personal space so intimately. It is strange, a little unnerving, but also incredibly exciting. The little buckskin mare is flattered by him, someone wanting to know her story, asking about her. No demands, no necessity, purely for pleasure and self satisfaction.
Deeply she inhales, taking in his scent. He smells of musk, pleasant to the senses of any female, especially when it's accompanied by such an ample male form. She resists the urge to lean into him as he stands so close, to reach out and touch him. He might be an illusion, sent to tease her after so many years of isolation, and when her muzzle brushes his skin he would dissipate into the atmosphere, nought more than a product of her dreams and desires.
"My name is Pevensie. I came here to see the snow, because you see, I live in the Desert." she says, cocking her head to better gaze into his eyes with her own honey brown spheres. "I see now though that I found more than I bargained for, though I won't complain," she finishes with a wry little smirk. He's so tantalisingly close, she can nearly feel the warmth of their skins between them, but she remember her decorum. She can't fawn over every man who shows an interest, she is far too old, far too wise for that.
He can feel the heat emanating from her as he stands only a breath away. Like the desert she hails from, she radiates warmth. Intoxicating, beaconing in this frigid land. He has grown so accustomed to the cold that he had forgotten what he was missing. She reminded him. Tempted him strongly with something he had long since given up. Something he had never regretted until this very moment.
But it is more than that. More than her heat and scent. He can't quite put his hoof on it. Not yet. He will figure it out. It is what he does best. But for now he knows only that she is more. She is real, solid. Where she sees him as an illusion, a mist that might float away at any moment, he sees her as so very there. A horse with more presence, more life, than he could have believed possible. It gives him comfort and unnerves him all in the same breath, in a way he cannot put words to.
When she speaks, those thoughts drift away as he focuses on their conversation. Her words cause a hint of a smile to curve his lips. She had wanted to see snow. The novelty of her whim amuses him, easing his countenance slightly.
Pevensie.
He tests her name on his tongue, drawing out the syllables ever so slightly. He would never willingly admit how much he enjoyed the sound and taste of it.
Should I be flattered?
The hint of a smile turns into a full grin, an expression that does not grace his features often but one that is disarmingly charming all the same.
I am Hurricane. So, is our snow everything you hoped it would be? There is never a day that goes by that is a good day to die. Hurricane
"Everything, and more," she answers, closing her eyes. She lets the white dust land on her eyelids, lifts her muzzle towards the heavens and inhales slowly. She sucks in the air as readily as an addict taking on a line of coke, as if the icy air could give her a similar high to that a human might seek from narcotics. It tickles her nostrils, revitalising her.
She allows her lids to flicker open softly, the surrounding lashes coated in a fine frost mascara. The nameless horse before her, symbol of masculine beauty, is now unmasked with a name. Hurricane. A fitting name, she muses inwardly as she looks him in the eye, her honey iris's intent and focused. He reminds her of the turning waves as the ocean collapses, the lashing of hailstone and the calm mist after the storm. His mother named her son well, she thinks.
"I can't stay long. My home calls me back," she explains calmly, her voice silken with practised tone and melody. She turns her head, glances away into the direction of her homeland as the snow continues to fall all about them, to give them a privacy perhaps not accessible elsewhere in Beqanna. There are no walls here, but they are hidden by a curtain of snow.
"But first, let me ask, is there anything more I should come back and see?" she asks, sweet and suggestive and equal measure. She wants to close the space between them more than ever, she wants to reach her muzzle to his neck, feel the warmth of his blood pulsing beneath the skin, know that they are both alive and in the moment.
Perhaps, if he wants her to return again, she shall.
If he had been a lesser man, the vision of her standing amongst the falling snow, head raised towards the pale gray sky, beautiful eyes closed in bliss might have brought him to his knees. The desire hits him hard, a sucker punch to his gut, making him ache. His dark eyes trail the fine bones of her face, drinking in the sight of her frost-rimmed eyes, catching on the wind-tossed feather, stroking along the sleek line of neck before coming back to hold her gaze. He yearns to follow that same path with his muzzle, to make the visual touch physical. But he does not. Not yet anyway. He cannot say why he feels it so strongly, but this woman deserves so much more than just a roll in the hay.
Her next words call him back to the present. He finds he does not wish her to leave, though he knows she must go. She no doubt has duties awaiting her, just as he does. But that does not stop him from wishing it might be different, that he might spirit her away to a place where they could forget the world, for a little while at least. But he cannot. She is a ray of sunshine filtering through ones fingers, warm and real but impossible to grasp, to hold on to.
That does not stop the suggestive grin from tugging at his lips when she speaks her next words. He would let her go, for now. But he would do his very best to draw her back. To leave her anticipating the next time they might meet. He steps close, his lips trailing up her neck, a breath away, not quite touching her downy soft coat, until he can once again whisper his words into her ear.
There is so much I could show you.
With that he steps away, leaving her tempting warmth. A knowing smile gives his lips a slight curve. He has no doubt he will see her again, even if he has to search her out himself. There is never a day that goes by that is a good day to die. Hurricane
|
