Saturday's Storyteller: "The snow horse stood motionless, its watchful eyes oblivious to the slaughter before it."
by Belinda Roddie
The snow horse stood motionless, its watchful eyes oblivious to the slaughter before it. This was because it was made of snow, and therefore, its eyes weren't exactly watchful at all. Mainly, they watched nothing. They saw nothing. But they were there.
The child who had built the snow horse lay dead with three arrows in his chest. A small wound above his left eye - which at a closer glance made up for its width with its depth - had been inflicted by a dagger with an overly ornate handle, glittering green in the quieting blizzard. Bit by bit, the shades of red and brown upon the youth's body was becoming covered in white. Of course, something would make the fresh corpse freely bleed, and the white, consequently became crimson again. It, too, would be covered in more white.
There was nothing the snow horse could do to stop the carnage. The war had gone on for seventeen years already - not even the innocent were allowed to live anymore. The snow horse also was not aware of the war, nor was it aware of anything else. It simply was. But it could be killed, too. By heat, avalanche, or simply an angry boot planted into its side.
As it remained perched atop the slope where the last assault had taken place, two women on real horses approached and surveyed the scene. Besides the boy who had merely wanted to play with snow, there were three men and two other children dead outside the village. The village itself, it seemed, had been burned to the ground. Now, too, its ashen husk would be peppered by the frozen tears of the gods themselves.
One woman hopped off her horse and examined the bodies. Then her eyes strayed to the icy sculpture before her. Its black eyes - wood? Stone? - did not lessen its gaze. Her companion joined her on the ground and gripped her left shoulder tightly.
"Don't," she ordered. "You'll get caught up again."
"Is it art," asked the other woman, "or is it merely naive hope?"
"Could be both."
The snow horse said nothing.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.
The snow horse stood motionless, its watchful eyes oblivious to the slaughter before it. This was because it was made of snow, and therefore, its eyes weren't exactly watchful at all. Mainly, they watched nothing. They saw nothing. But they were there.
The child who had built the snow horse lay dead with three arrows in his chest. A small wound above his left eye - which at a closer glance made up for its width with its depth - had been inflicted by a dagger with an overly ornate handle, glittering green in the quieting blizzard. Bit by bit, the shades of red and brown upon the youth's body was becoming covered in white. Of course, something would make the fresh corpse freely bleed, and the white, consequently became crimson again. It, too, would be covered in more white.
There was nothing the snow horse could do to stop the carnage. The war had gone on for seventeen years already - not even the innocent were allowed to live anymore. The snow horse also was not aware of the war, nor was it aware of anything else. It simply was. But it could be killed, too. By heat, avalanche, or simply an angry boot planted into its side.
As it remained perched atop the slope where the last assault had taken place, two women on real horses approached and surveyed the scene. Besides the boy who had merely wanted to play with snow, there were three men and two other children dead outside the village. The village itself, it seemed, had been burned to the ground. Now, too, its ashen husk would be peppered by the frozen tears of the gods themselves.
One woman hopped off her horse and examined the bodies. Then her eyes strayed to the icy sculpture before her. Its black eyes - wood? Stone? - did not lessen its gaze. Her companion joined her on the ground and gripped her left shoulder tightly.
"Don't," she ordered. "You'll get caught up again."
"Is it art," asked the other woman, "or is it merely naive hope?"
"Could be both."
The snow horse said nothing.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.
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