02-09-2021, 03:39 PM
( THESE DAYS I DON’T PRAY WHEN I CLOSE MY EYES
I JUST BITE MY TONGUE A BIT HARDER )
I JUST BITE MY TONGUE A BIT HARDER )
He is only vaguely aware of the sound of her voice as it roars through the silence. But the enormity of his fear dulls each of his senses. A defense mechanism, no doubt, a way of tempering his awareness so that his death will not be as painful. He steels himself against it, locking his baby knees and sucking in a sharp breath that he holds hard and fast as the monster rakes its long black fingers down the colt’s side.
The sensation kicks all of the air out of him and he lets out a primal yelp, recoiling. And then the thing is gone and he forces open his eyes, standing there, trembling. He cowers as the mare rips into the thing with her teeth and his sense of dread compounds. Death is coming.
Death is coming.
Death is coming.
Death is coming.
He feels it like a second pulse. Even as ice snakes through his veins from his feet to seep into the superficial wound along the swell of his heaving ribcage. He sucks in a sharp, wild breath, so consumed by his fear and dread that he thinks these things alone will surely kill him.
And then, suddenly, such a peculiar stillness. He looks from the dead thing to the mare and thinks he should feel some palpable amount of relief. Gratitude. He thinks, too, that death has come for the monster and the dread should in him should have died along with it. But it intensifies as she turns to him, bleeding. She takes a funny step toward him and then collapses.
He rushes to her, dips his head to press his nose urgently against her shoulder. If he can channel the ice from his veins into hers then maybe he can save her, too. But it’s no use, he knows that. She will die. She will die, he can feel it.
“No, no, no,” he whispers into her blood-slick flesh before he turns and throws back his head. Heart hammering, he opens his mouth and screams, “help! Please, help!”
His throat tightens and his voice fails him. So when he speaks next, it comes out as a miserable whimper. “Mom!”
The sensation kicks all of the air out of him and he lets out a primal yelp, recoiling. And then the thing is gone and he forces open his eyes, standing there, trembling. He cowers as the mare rips into the thing with her teeth and his sense of dread compounds. Death is coming.
Death is coming.
Death is coming.
Death is coming.
He feels it like a second pulse. Even as ice snakes through his veins from his feet to seep into the superficial wound along the swell of his heaving ribcage. He sucks in a sharp, wild breath, so consumed by his fear and dread that he thinks these things alone will surely kill him.
And then, suddenly, such a peculiar stillness. He looks from the dead thing to the mare and thinks he should feel some palpable amount of relief. Gratitude. He thinks, too, that death has come for the monster and the dread should in him should have died along with it. But it intensifies as she turns to him, bleeding. She takes a funny step toward him and then collapses.
He rushes to her, dips his head to press his nose urgently against her shoulder. If he can channel the ice from his veins into hers then maybe he can save her, too. But it’s no use, he knows that. She will die. She will die, he can feel it.
“No, no, no,” he whispers into her blood-slick flesh before he turns and throws back his head. Heart hammering, he opens his mouth and screams, “help! Please, help!”
His throat tightens and his voice fails him. So when he speaks next, it comes out as a miserable whimper. “Mom!”
Selaphiel
@[Mazikeen] @[Ryatah]