Turtle wrote:I was but a yearling when first I arrived at this pleasant place, my eyes full of wonder and legs full of sparks. From birth, my mother had promised me that I would do great things, be great, a champion. Her words stoked my fire, and the rolling pastures and exercise rings fanned my flames. This was the place where I would make my mark. Two humans, a man and a woman, spoke over my withers as I was lead into a crisp barn, all wood and steel and hay and horse. The sights, the smells, the sound of my hooves clipping briskly over the concrete floor, it all smacked of privilege, of pride. An oakwood door with an open top slid to the side, revealing a large box stall with ample flax bedding. The bronze plaque on the door read: "His Highness, The Island" - I didn't realize the significance of those words at the time, not until much later on. I settled into the comfortable box, poking my nose out over the door to inspect my neighbors. A
dark mare with a light mane was situated across from me a few stalls over, and across from her, to my right, was a
black and white mare with jewels draped across her neck. To my left, over the divider of our stalls, I could see another mare, though she was much larger than any mare I'd ever seen before. She was a bright chestnut hue, with creamy white over her face and neck. Regarding me with soft blue eyes as I in turn assessed her, I notice a feminine blush of pink over her muzzle and round her eyes, adding to the inherent sweetness of her face. She was older than I, perhaps five or six at the time, and seemed to carry in her an unflinching patience.
"Hello," she said, "what's your name?" I blinked, in shock, as her eloquent alto tickled my ears - I didn't realize regular horses could communicate with my kind. I thought it was only the descendants of unicorns that could use the ancient language, not the short-handed jargon the humans spouted on end.
"I-I'm..." I paused, considering; I had never had a name before, and the plaque on the door had made little sense to me at the time. "I don't know."
She grinned, the motion like sunrise o'er a dewy spring pasture, glistening with facets of interest, yet also with a quiet knowingness, as though she had seen this same reaction before. She leaned over the barrier to exchange breaths in privacy, both of us taking note of the dark mare's interest. "My name is Pleasant Meadow, but you can call me Wildflower."
"I like wildflowers, they remind me of home," I piped up, on impulse, though feeling foolish for the outburst almost immediately at the childishness of my statement. Her gentle laughter reddened my own cheeks, and I stood up taller in an attempt to look more grown. "So how do I get a name, then? I asked, impatient at my own youthful ignorance. It seemed something I should have known, yet I was caught unawares. The mirthful snorting of the black and white mare at our side itched at my pride, shoulders twitching in displeasure.
Ms. Wildflower's grin was not malicious though, as she leaned down a moment to snatch some golden hay between her teeth, taking her time as she considered my inquiry. It made me feel as though it weren't so foolish to not have a name, the way in which she made sure to carefully finish her mouthful before responding. Her massive height struck me once again, and I could not help but stare impolitely, against my better teachings, until her own gaze met mine again and I felt ashamed. "Our caretakers will give you one soon - you'll hear them use it around you often. You'll have two of them, like me - one for formal occasions, like shows, and one for the casual use of friends."
Friends, I had thought, looking away to my water trough. My dimmed reflection stared back silently, the quintissential questions of life, identity, flowed through my mind like the rippling water before me.
"What would you call me?" I wondered aloud, one ear flicking in her direction as I watched my mirrored image make the motions of my question.
I heard her reach for another mouthful of hay, my gaze drawn back at the movement, and something in the elegant dip and rise of her neck seemed to quiet my curiosity, the motion soothing in a way.
"It's not my place to say."
