(no subject)
The world moves on. She's known it since she were eleven, say true-- since the day they buried Pat Delgado.
And there's that which still needs doing-- the horses (of courses) need tending, among other things. She goes about her routine, and if the familiar habits of her work help to soothe the ache of losing another friend--
(I saw that a star had broken its rope in the stables of heaven)
--well, mayhap there's naught wrong with that.
But today when Susan finishes the morning's chores, she spends a few minutes on the far side of the pasture, in the grass and at the edge of the forest as well-- and then she leads Boukephalos from the paddock. The great black war-horse seems eager for a run, and it's with soft words that she encourages him toward the lake trail-- but she brings him to a stop near a patch of disturbed ground, first.
She knows what it is now, say true. Susan slides from the stallion's back and leaves him to crop at the green grass while she approaches the small mound, carrying the wildflowers she's collected. Field daisies and dandelions, blue violets and green fern, scattered throughout with the dusky pink of wild roses-- not for him the sheltered blossoms of Anthy's greenhouse, never in life.
She carefully lays the small bouquet on the earth of the fresh grave--
(when one body gets killed we just go back and wait)
--and stands there quiet for a little, before she says with soft determination to the empty air,
"Just -- it's just to remember, do'ee ken? Until thee come back."
Boukephalos snorts, pawing at the ground behind her, and Susan turns quickly and goes to him, with a small laugh. "Aye, thee proud one, thee restless-- ye never got on, I kennit-- ye've been very patient, say true--"
She mounts once more and turns him toward the flat stretch, then leans forward and speaks into his ear. The great horse leaps forward, hooves thundering, and black mane and golden hair blow tangled in the wind of their passing as they
(fly)
race over the open ground toward the distant forest beyond the far lake shore.
And there's that which still needs doing-- the horses (of courses) need tending, among other things. She goes about her routine, and if the familiar habits of her work help to soothe the ache of losing another friend--
(I saw that a star had broken its rope in the stables of heaven)
--well, mayhap there's naught wrong with that.
But today when Susan finishes the morning's chores, she spends a few minutes on the far side of the pasture, in the grass and at the edge of the forest as well-- and then she leads Boukephalos from the paddock. The great black war-horse seems eager for a run, and it's with soft words that she encourages him toward the lake trail-- but she brings him to a stop near a patch of disturbed ground, first.
She knows what it is now, say true. Susan slides from the stallion's back and leaves him to crop at the green grass while she approaches the small mound, carrying the wildflowers she's collected. Field daisies and dandelions, blue violets and green fern, scattered throughout with the dusky pink of wild roses-- not for him the sheltered blossoms of Anthy's greenhouse, never in life.
She carefully lays the small bouquet on the earth of the fresh grave--
(when one body gets killed we just go back and wait)
--and stands there quiet for a little, before she says with soft determination to the empty air,
"Just -- it's just to remember, do'ee ken? Until thee come back."
Boukephalos snorts, pawing at the ground behind her, and Susan turns quickly and goes to him, with a small laugh. "Aye, thee proud one, thee restless-- ye never got on, I kennit-- ye've been very patient, say true--"
She mounts once more and turns him toward the flat stretch, then leans forward and speaks into his ear. The great horse leaps forward, hooves thundering, and black mane and golden hair blow tangled in the wind of their passing as they
(fly)
race over the open ground toward the distant forest beyond the far lake shore.