The rider, he doesn't smile, only seems like he might. Like a faint impulse has stirred, either too distant or too tightly bridled to surface—a suggestion, there and gone again. The big black horse, on the other hand, has slack enough to bob his head up in surprise, ears forward and lip twitching. Both of them watching as she smooths down that little bump in her dignity.
"Careful," the man says. His voice, though soft, carries easily through the winter quiet. "This may be a dream, but falling still hurts."
He doesn't need to ask if this place belongs to her; it feels like it does, and Horizon doesn't lie the way some dreams do. (Or has yet to lie to him.)
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The rider, he doesn't smile, only seems like he might. Like a faint impulse has stirred, either too distant or too tightly bridled to surface—a suggestion, there and gone again. The big black horse, on the other hand, has slack enough to bob his head up in surprise, ears forward and lip twitching. Both of them watching as she smooths down that little bump in her dignity.
"Careful," the man says. His voice, though soft, carries easily through the winter quiet. "This may be a dream, but falling still hurts."
He doesn't need to ask if this place belongs to her; it feels like it does, and Horizon doesn't lie the way some dreams do. (Or has yet to lie to him.)