Letters from a Princess

And the rainfall. Thundering droplets from a cloudless sky ending just before her hooves. They drizzled back, as though fleeing, to the lake from whence they came. Velvety ripples marred the surface of the smooth water, distorting her view of the pebble that had caused them, but more importantly the reflection of the mare who’d put it there.

Her fur was the bittersweet blackness of liquorice, to match the night sky; a blackness not even the brilliant white light of the moon beneath her hooves could stamp out.

Her mane was just as dark, flowing and whipping about like its own celestial body, dark like her hooves and the armour over her beaten chest, black like her heart, the blood coursing through her veins, the darkness in her mind and the scorching hatred in her soul, the only things that could not match the darkness her figure gave off in droves were her eyes.

Her eyes spoke not of malice, hatred, revenge or jealousy. Like dying stars they spoke of naught but sadness as they looked out across the body of water they had slowly added to over centuries. It was her lake; a lonely lake for a lonely mare. The mare in the moon.