LOVE IS NOT A VICTORY MARCH

¤ I T was a truth universally acknowledged that this stallion was in no mood to be interfered with. Indeed, even in his less volatile of moments Kohaku had a tendency towards aggression. But it would be imprudent to typify him as one in which ambition had been suppressed beneath the sheer force of nature’s constraints. For beneath such a dangerous outlook there lurked a shrewd intellect, one that had earned Kohaku both resentment and praise, and thus been both his saviour and demise. But now such aptitude had given way to the more primal of emotions, and although Kohaku would never openly admit it, he was not reluctant to bear resentment. Indeed, a certain sadistic pleasure could be derived from such a tirade of bitterness, and in the least it did much to appease his growing restiveness. Less than a moonspan had been spent within the confines of the woods, and although he had claimed the region as his own, Kohaku had not pursued such possessiveness. For what was there for him should he have remained within the bounds of his territory? And in whom did he perceive the faint stirrings of rebellion to demand his utmost attention? Tedium had pervaded his mind, for he had been rather at lack with one to whom he could converse. But Kohaku had not been insensible to the carelessness in remaining thusly. After all, did not the slow descent into madness begin with such self-imposed solitude? Kohaku had no intention of following a path as those of his forefathers, for he was not one to abide by the stereotypes of his alliance. While those of other alliances were considered insipid by not only himself, but also his kindred, Kohaku did not want to be considered merely a tyrannical madman. For was that not how darks were viewed by others? Did not others expect him to bear some deformity, a past filed with anguish that had led him so astray? Well, Kohaku always had been one to break the mold. His past had been no less – or more, difficult than that of any other young stallion of his alliance. It had been one filled with youthful idealism, harsh reprimand and an overall lack of warmth. All that Kohaku had earned was a grudging respect, and all he had caused was offence. He had made an erroneous movement, and he had learned that one did not outstrip the ranking of their sire without consequence.

¤ T H E R E could be no more stark contrast than that between the landscape he now roamed, and that territory he had so claimed. Eracham had clearly lived up to its namesake, for although he had not remained there for long, he could feel the accursed nature of the place. Its history had been steeped in bloodshed and dissent. There was but a sparse covering of vegetation to provide sustenance, for there had not been a storm for nearing a year, and what rain fell was quickly absorbed by the dust. His white was mottled through with such filth, and he flicked his tail in annoyance each time the wind picked up. For a moment the heady scent of pine seemed to pervade these lower reaches, and Kohaku was overcome by inner turmoil. Possession warred with obstinacy, and he was torn between trekking further into the encompassing marshes and retreating back to his territory. For what if some furtive stallion, some ruthless subordinate who would usurp in an absence of power, stumbled across his land so devoid of any form of equine life? No doubt they would do as he had done and be swift to grasp the reins of authority, to keep in check the plunging horses of impracticality – to stem the feelings of conquest when no battle had been fought. Kohaku’s blue eyes gleamed with what could be taken as rather sardonic amusement. Such a stallion would not hold his territory for longer than two moonspans, for Kohaku had met others of this nature and they were as cowardly as conniving. No, if a stallion so sought after his territory, than Kohaku would engage him on equal footing on the battlefield. He gave a sudden gasp as a sharp pain clawed its way up his foreleg, and had he been any less, he may have stumbled to the marshy ground. As it was, Kohaku came to a halt and glanced down at his foreleg with all the detachment of a soldier, coldly assessing the damage done. A gaping wound had been opened just above his fetlock, and dread gripped him when he saw the mire that had gathered about the edges and made its way into the open cut. Such a situation could be of the grave, for although the wound was not mortal the infection it could harbour was. Kohaku tentatively lowered his injured foreleg and aside from the hardening of his features, he gave no indication of the pain such an action presented. Breathing heavily he laboured through the mud, which just moments before had seemed like a challenge, and now seemed like an impossibility. That’s what happens when you don’t watch where you are going. Round and round his mind these words niggled at his subconscious as a despondent mood settled over him, banishing even the faintest traces of humour.

¤ I T was a truth universally acknowledged that this stallion was in no mood to be interfered with. Even hobbling as he was, much to his chagrin, Kohaku contained a certain assertion. He was the epitome of male arrogance, and this had not been dissipated beneath the gravity of the matter at hand. But though he had chided himself for such distraction, Kohaku’s mind was not focused on the continued trek through fenland. Instead he forced himself to recall what scarce information he had gained of the tending of wounds – mare’s duty, he thought with a contemptuous curl of the lip. He briefly considered making some form of salve to mimic the protection offered by the thin covering of skin, but with his lack of knowledge in such areas it would more than likely create more harm than good. Once again cursing himself and his impertinent egotism, Kohaku came to a shuddering halt, unable to do much more than glare down at his useless foreleg. If any predators had caught the scent of blood they would be drawn to his current calamity, for injured prey is so much simpler to take down. “What the hell did I come here for,” he muttered. It certainly hadn’t been to become a cripple. Something just eluded him, it danced just out of his grasp and his mind struggled desperately to ensnare it. If ever the skin is opened by a wound and thus to infection, it must be cleansed of such contamination. Though we possess nothing with which to take such physical action, we are able to stave off the worst by allowing the injured area to be exposed to running water – preferably cold. Where Kohaku had learned such valid information he was given no indication, though more than likely it had been from his dam. Though he had been conceived of a forced coupling, the captive mare, Maika, his dam, had bore him no resentment. Rather she had craved to extend some semblance of warmth, to thaw the ice cold mask he had created. When Kohaku thought of his dam, it was with a mixture of pity and remorse, never with derision. Even now he silently thanked her for such convincing insight, but it was not to the emancipated creature, the manifestation of death that he made his entreaty. It was to the mare who although discontent with her own lot in life, had sought to shape a future for her son. It was to the mare that had so boldly defied his sire and earned herself the harshest of reproaches. It was to his dam, it was to Maika. But enough time had been wasted on emotion, and Kohaku shook himself from his stupor. As he stepped forward the pain intensified until he almost collapsed under its force. A black haze crept into the edges of his vision and it was only through sheer willpower that Kohaku remained standing. He couldn’t remain motionless and he swayed where he stood, instinct screaming at him to keep his weight off the injured leg. But Kohaku couldn’t. In his mind there was a duty that needed to be undertaken, and it was one that could not be dissuaded. The water was brackish, algae fanning out across its still surface and concealing the murky depths below. But no other option was presented, for Kohaku did not think he would make it any further than this disused waterway. Not without hesitancy did he lower the damaged area into the water, recoiling slightly at the chill it sent through his body. But he remained, foreleg submerged and no doubt looking rather outlandish for any horse – or predator, that penetrated so far into the marsh. Kohaku could feel his grip on awareness fading, clarity lying defeated at the feet of obscurity. Pulling his foreleg back from the hold of the water, he stumbled backwards several steps, towards the protection of the encircling trees. The world spun, his surroundings suddenly becoming indistinct and vague. And Kohaku’s mind barely registered that he had buckled beneath the weight of delirium, as he felt himself step off the precipe of awareness and into the shadows.

I t’s . a . b r o k e n . h a l l e l u j a h

¤ && Notes;
Basically this a recycled post from a dead site, but it is open to anyone who wants to join -- particuarly a queen of some sorts. He is still within the boundary of his territory, although Kohaku is a stubborn creature and refuses to acknowledge that he is.