Legends of Freedom

Meeting The Family

"Lucius, son" a voice jolts me into a better sense of alertness. "Get your head out of the clouds." Says my dad, a tall, handsome dark brown stallion.  

He and my mom are supposedly Thoroughbreds, a breed of horses bred to race for longer amounts of time, which earns us the reputation of being very powerful among the Horvath Herd. 

"Yes, father" I say gently, not necessarily under my breath, but just barely hitting that tone, but it's enough to get my sister involved. She appears from behind our Great Oak tree that is in the center of our home, the support to our 'dome'.

  She looks at me, her blue eyes soft and gentle as she says, "Don't go getting all bent out of shape, Mother will have a fit." Of course, my sister resembles our mother, a light gray coat with lovely dapples and a dark mane and tail. They're beautiful, and it only has added to our reputation. Behind my sister, Mother appears. 

She's in a good mood, and heads straight for Father, moving with a grace that she was born with, a grace so soothing to see. Gives the impression we're safe. But we're not. And we haven't been for years. In a few moments of shared whispers, My parents turn and exit our little place of shelter slowly, and my sister catches my eyes. 

"What do you think has Mother in such a good mood?" Whispers Sandy, her blue eyes sparkle with humor. I look at her, because she's so much taller than I am, a full sized adult female now, and I say "I'm unsure, Sands" I turn to the small pile of five apples, noticing the extra. 

Sandy seems to understand my thoughts because she's at my side in a second, excitement radiating from her, "Marvel is joining us for dinner tonight, L". As if I care. 

We pick the best apples, our Mother has an uncanny ability to pick the juiciest, sweetest apples from the Horvath Harvest Orchards. She always tries to tell everyone it's just a calling to an apple that she sees, that it's just luck. But it's a gift, a gift to find food. 

So. Why should I care that a spoiled, stupid, ungrateful young stallion, has been invited to our special apple dinner, and accepted the invitation? 

That's right. I shouldn't. And I don't. I don't say anything, just turn to my new, fresh pile of moss Mother would have collected earlier today whil I was at training. I don't care that Marvel is coming. I care that Sandy cares. And that's why I care that he is coming.

"Lucius, you were supposed to bring in the water!" Whines Sandy. I was arranging my bed of moss, and forgot about my chore.

"Sorry Sandy, I'll be right back!" I tell her, escaping out of our dome and reaching our 'bucket' that Father had made years ago out of clay, back when buckets were all the rage of how to gather water.

I don't have to go to town tonight, Mother made Apple Juice. A sweet smell came from the bucket, it was a pale brown kind of color. And when I grasped the iron ring on the top of the bucket in my mouth, and lifted the bucket from the solid earth, the liquid sloshes, and I notice how thick it is.

Why are we all so into displaying a show for Marvel, anyway? This is nearing insanity. Thick, sweet Apple Juice, the sweetest and juiciest Apples that are so perfectly crisp, and new fresh beds of moss arranged neatly.

I even noticed that Father must have at least tried to help before dinner before he and Mom disappeared by brushing the fallen Oak leaves out of the dome. He did alright.

I walk with a trained grace, a grace that only a Guard could possibly possess. I see it often enough, in the other colts my age in training, and in Stallions much older than I. Somewhere in my head, my thoughts return to the vision of that filly with those gray eyes, she looked at me, and challenged me to say something about the way she dared to stand outside of that training arena, outside of Zovek's training arena.

I remember the way she held her body, she was built like any other young mare, like any other filly on the brink of becoming a mare, a fragile and delicate shape of lovely shades of colors, and bright eyes. But she held herself in a way so differently, she allowed herself to look confident and focused, strong and able. Unlike so many others that hold themselves so weakly, so dainty like daisies. Not that filly from last evening.

I enter back into the dome, and squint slightly, adjusting back to the darkness that only will get darker as the sun slowly sinks under the horizon. Mother and Father were back, talking in excited voices, Sandy was standing nearby, her head gently tipped to the side, her eyes were bright, and she had them trained on the pile of apples, but her eyes were unfocused. She was listening to Mother and Father.

"Oh, and Sandy, dear, Wash your right front hoof, dear." Mother says, her voice light and sweet, "You've got mud on it." Mother turns to look at me, her eyes softening as time passes. But she doesn't say anything.

"No need for her to do such, it's a perfect touch, Miss." a gentle voice turns heads towards our entrance, where a handsome young brown and white painted stallion stands, his head held high, and intelligent black eyes sweeping over Sandy's body.

Marvel.

I watch as Sandy's entire body shifts slowly, going from her poised, powerful stance into a gentle, relaxed one. Though I can tell it's forced. Mother goes through the same changes in seconds, and Father dips his head in greeting to the younger stallion.

"Marvel, oh. We prepared apple juice and picked an apple for you tonight!" Breathes Mother. I glance at her, though most of my attention has locked onto Sandy.

She's nervous.