TRUTH IS TOO OFTEN ONLY A MIRROR OF ONE'S DESIRES.⠀🗲⠀as a child, he used to be frequently disappointed when reality didn't live up to his expectations——whether it was a story, a trip, or a promised gift. like most children, he'd show his temper then and sulk, dismissed by his father who busied himself with apologizing to whoever was slighted and often visited later on by his brother who would sometimes coddle him with a better version of whatever he'd been seeking, if not a flippant joke or tale to make him forget it soon after.
truth eludes search, and he's familiar with the idea that the more doggedly one looks for it, the further away it tends to stray. he's thinking of his brother today——against all odds and his own better sense, he grasps for it regardless: that truth. because hope, frustrating and futile thing that it often is, is one of the hardest embers to snuff out. and even he is only human.
the likelihood it's what he thinks couldn't be any lower.
he tells himself this over and over like a mantra, repeating it like the prayers he disparages. it keeps him in check. like all children, he'd grown up, learned some discipline, and so he's no longer the sulking thing that had to be comforted.
the black iron spur is heavy in the pocket of his cloak. his fingers stay wrapped around it as though it were a precious gemstone, one a kind as it is, afraid it might dislodge from its safekeeping and be lost in this web of illegal stables and for the price of his hope, he might bet one precious thing only to lose two.
left. right. another right. the warren of these stalls kept out of sight run deeper than they initially seemed. just how extensive was this seller's holdings? he couldn't imagine that the underground market for illegal horse trade would be so extensive ; why, when he'd never thought horses were difficult to come by normally? the fact that she was here——if she was ; he schools his hope into obedience again——suggests they already knew she wasn't just your usual steed. 73. . . 74. . . the numbers hung beside each narrow door grin snaggle-toothed at him in chipped and peeling paint, old and worn. it spoke of an operation that was not only long-standing, but mobile ; whoever was in charge moved it around like a nomadic enterprise, most likely to evade capture by authorities whenever they might've started catching on. much as he loathed it, this was the only reason he hadn't told anyone else about it himself yet, lest it slip out of his grasp before he had the chance to see for himself.
81. . . 82. . . at last, stall 86 nears, and his pulse accelerates unconsciously. 83, a grey-flecked beast, old in the eyes, coat growing in for the winter. 84, a tall, brown gelding staring at nothing.
——movement startles him to a stop. stall 86 must be just around this corner, around which another figure now appears, cloaked, identity hidden. it's not unlike his own, with his hair worn beneath one scarf and a second one covering his face from the eyes below, academy uniform replaced with nondescript garb. every instinct screams at him to reach for his sword, but instead, he narrows his eyes and stays on the alert. acting had never been his forte, but pretending as though he belonged here as much as anyone else came more easily than expected when his pursuit was urgent. "get out of my way," he snaps gruffly, only able to hope they wouldn't attack. he couldn't afford a scene here, or a fight. if it came to it, he would have to subdue them as quickly and silently as possible. "i've got water to fetch." / @corvusi
