It had been weeks since he'd seen any sign of
Ankti, his mother. The herd continued regardless; horses milling around in the snow upon the plains, scratching feed lines in the dirt while trying to unearth something palatable. Not him, though. Lingering along the outer edge of the idle herd had become something of a habit — he was within reach if they sighted danger and decided to move, but the boy wasn't watching them. His eyes were on the world
outside; where he could be disconnected, roaming like the rogue he knew himself to truly be. But something stopped him from leaving.
'Perhaps in the spring,' he thought as he paced.
'Maybe when mother is distracted by the next foal,' as it wasn't his duty to protect her, she was not
his mare, and his father had not planted the seed within her this season; whatever amounted from the coupling would be
lesser. Not a
wind-walker, with the blood of a king in their veins. The colt snorted at the thought and banished such contemplations from his mind — tossing his head as he turned and began trotting along to another patch of snow.
Seen all manner of places and the plains are no different. Not jaded enough, yet, to write them off. Beautiful even when blanketed in snow. . .no, perhaps especially when. Dead grass en masse is an ugly sight. Counts his blessings. Could be worse. Could be muddy, like when the snow's melting and the sun stays up longer.
Fun to roll in cool spring mud, though. Refreshing. Simple joys in life.
Sees the colt nearby and whinnies in greeting, breath fogging, voice carrying like the whisper of a long-dead soul on the wind. Quiet here. Not many of his kind to be found. First he's come across in moons. Bereft for so many days. Seasons. Years. Centuries — no life lasts that long. Not in corporeal sense.
Spirits go on far longer. Prophets reborn again and again, remembering each facet of their many existences. Flora, fauna. Even human. Didn't prefer that test of steadfastness. Human brains are too active. They've got so much —
Food water shelter. Sex, children. Humans complicate things. Wolves are too sharp. Deer flighty. Pick horse again and again. Closest to the Sun God. No other comes close.
Hail, stranger,
comes his call, filled with quiet joy. Friend or foe? What is in your heart?
Not questions, but demands. Don't let the lilting voice and punctuation lead you astray
He hears a call and side-eyes the origin, wondering if it is one of the men demanding attention from one of the corralled women - ah, no, they're calling at him. Not familiar in the slightest, either. That gets his full attention. Hakai has always been flighty, but eager too, wanting to expand his horizons. This stranger does not look like the others of the herd; he has not seen this type before and speedily decides to investigate.
Much of what Hakai does is quick. Decisions, actions, thoughts — detrimental sometimes, since a lack of deliberation can lead to issues, dangers. His mother takes ages to make up her mind on things. He's pretty sure she's undecided about her current hook-up, undecided over her feelings about Nechako's abandonment, undecided about him too. Sometimes she's easy to be around but more often than not, Hakai just wants to keep his distance.
This stranger is about the furthest thing from familiar that he can find right now, which is what draws him across the plains. His alert expression falters when he hears the strange words.
Neither,
he counters, even if it doesn't make much sense. You do not run with this herd. Who are you?
sorry i suck also what the fuck kind of grammar was i using when i wrote the last post
Contradiction. Snorts, tosses his head. Then a question toward him.
Prophet,
comes his response, not clear as to whether it's a name or a title. Neither, just like the contradiction. A contradiction for a contradiction. Smiles and laughs softly at the thought of it, the jest.
I run with no herd. I am free.
Lifts his head, staring down the other. Sees his future sprawl out before him like an expanse of spring-green grass, fresh and new. A gift; always has been. The sight has been his since leaving Mother's womb.
You will amount to nothing,
whispers the grulla.
But your children and their children will rule these plains.
Not anything to be pleased by, in the short term. Tail flicks, as if casting off summer flies. Knows trouble will come from this, like always. With a nod toward the stallion, breaks off into a lope, extending into a gallop.
One day, will return. For now, the wind takes him.