24
« on: August 27, 2019, 10:52:41 PM »
The mud and rain had made it easy to stay angry as she tromped back to her sleeping place, her mind conjuring the malice of her so-called friends in every patch of muck that tripped her up, and projecting Littlefoot’s smug face into every puddle that she crashed through. Tria and her dad didn’t ask any questions when she finally made it home, fuming and disheveled; moods like this had become more and more frequent as the young threehorn grew toward maturity, and they knew that it was best to give her space until she cooled off.
It was when she curled up, as far from her family as possible while still staying out of the rain, that the full emotional turmoil of the day’s events finally overcame her. They had all fought before, of course, but this had been different. Her words and intentions had been final, an ending she wasn’t sure she was ready for. Though they had been drifting apart, Littlefoot and the others had been her oldest, dearest friends, and losing them tore at her in a way that she couldn’t escape. She buried her head under her forelegs, trying to push the sadness away from the inside through sheer force of will, teeth clenched. It seemed like an eternity before she finally drifted off to sleep, stubborn tears trailing down her cheeks.
Standing on a high patch of ground she had the perfect view of them, a vast herd that stretched as far as she could see. The horned faces turned up toward her were full of awe, and respect, and maybe just a little bit of fear. She caught a glimpse of her own fully grown horns in the corner of her vision, white and gleaming in the sun, and felt her chest swell with pride. Yes, she was amazing, and the other threehorns finally saw it too.
She took the cool morning air into her lungs and let loose a bellow that shook the earth beneath them, the resounding approval of hundreds of stomping feet like music to her ears. This was her herd. Her kind. And it was time they let the valley know what threehorns were made of.
She beamed at them, taking in another breath to deliver the speech of a lifetime, but when the words came, they were nothing like the resounding roar she expected. It was like the voice was coming from someone else, far away, so faint she could barely hear it though the words it spoke were her own. She furrowed her brow and tried again, but the most she could manage sounded barely louder than a whisper. The others began to shuffle, restless and confused, trading glances and muttering amongst themselves. She was losing them.
“No!” She tried to shout, but her throat felt like it was closing, and not even a whisper made it through. An inexplicable terror seized her, and the world began to raise up around her as she sank down, down, down until she could see every individual curl of the vegetation that had been under her feet moments before. She had to crane her neck up to look at the encircling crowd, their horns casting shadows on her, glinting cruelly in the backlight of the sun. Faces twisted into grimaces of shock, disgust, and pity, a voice seemed to come from all of them at once, or maybe from the air itself.
“The broken band has been broken by pride, now it shall be united by being broken. Go forth to this broken land… and protect the land you love.”
What did it mean? The words stirred vague memories, but she had no time to dwell on them as a massive foot raised above her. Before she could even utter a cry it came crashing down, snuffing out the world and sending her plunging into darkness.
Cera woke with a gasp of breath, disoriented and shaking. The first thing she noticed was a strange, prickling sensation all over, like she was covered in leaves or crawlers. It took her a moment to recognize where she was- she must have tumbled from her sleeping spot. “That explains the dream.” She grumbled to herself. Shifting in place, the prickling feeling intensified. With a grimace, she lifted a foreleg to scratch at her chest. Except… her foreleg wasn’t a leg at all. Staring dumbly at the spindly thing in front of her, she caught sight of the source of the prickles: weird soft flowing bits sticking out of her once tough hide. Just like… like Guido. She tilted her head back and screamed as she flailed and tore at the feathers, the sound small and mournful against the vastness of the sky.