I know you, they say as its form passes through a landscape of lush grass and flowering trees. It smiles and nods in acknowledgement; baby's breath and daisies flourish beneath its hooves. Black specks shimmer between the blades of grass.

...so familiar..., the soft wonderment of a foal breathes through the twitter of birds and melody of wind. Its movement is silent, all lithe grace and a beauty that is otherworldly, as it nears the little one. It sings sweet lilting notes that ensnares the crowds of kin; lovesick dreams fill their heads and they fall to the ground in drowsy slumber.

Visions are seldom all they seem, the spirit sings as the black specks emerge -- thousands upon thousands of spiders -- to feast. The lush grass wilts and the once-flowering trees release their long dead blossoms. Baby's breath and daisies turn brown and crumble as the wind howls.

And you, awake, take in this world that is all illusion and smile. Once upon a dream, you whisper to the spirit -- its face regards you with little emotion, may only be a nightmare.

The spirit smiles and you see it's true face-

This world is desolate. The trees have all burned. The ground is naught but baked dried mud or loose stale dirt. The water has gone and the world has been bled of color. Indeed the world seems eternally stilled for the only movement is ashen smoke curling up from charred stumps. Until she comes.

She walks in silence; a beacon of hope in desolation. With her comes bursts of color: the messengers. Jewel toned butterflies lit from within flock to her, settle upon her crown, to bring pleas from the deceased's loved ones or words from the Motherfather. Duty done, they pop, and she attends to her own callings.

Corpses litter this in-between. The unworthy become dust -- bones crushed and crunched beneath her hooves. The worthy -- she snaps her teeth around the wispy auras, pulls them free from long-cold bodies and sets them loose. Watches, unaffected, as they go to the Motherfather's side.

Guardian or vengeful angel, that all depends. What did you do in your lifetime?

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

A trail laid before him; dark and foreboding. Brambles grew up and over, blocked out the sun, the joy, and left a gloom. And he foresaw misery. No; that was not the way for him.

He raised his face to the sunlight, then followed its warmth to a patch of flowers -- vibrant and pastel, all joy and light -- he could make his own way. With careful steps, he picked his way through the Primrose Path and knew he would have a life of his own making.

“He’s dead, your highness.” One voice, soft. (Sympathy, I think, and pain.)

“Your majesty.” (I flinch at the title, at the harsh hiss, from an elder who advised my father.)

“We’re sorry, princess,” the sympathetic one begins, “he was a—“ (A great king, a good—my—father, I finish.)

“Queen.” The same hiss, harsher now. (I will have to speak to him, later, when my voice doesn’t crack.)

The sky is awash in the blood of my father—(his voice chuckles in my memories, “it is only a sunset, daughter”)—and these elders argue the politics of titles.

I turn away, a firm, “Leave me,” tossed over my shoulder. I crumble only when alone; I cry until I dream.

---

The great spirits mingle.

A bear, red as blood, presses its paw into a rock until it fractures. A dog, green as grass, bares its teeth in a dare. A bird, blue as sky and water, settles between them. Gold flares bright, tethers them together, and then there is nothing but flashes. Eggs and sacs give birth to foals that grow up and fight, only to repeat.

Power.
Courage.
Wisdom.

It’s a legend. Everyone tells it a little different. There is power, corrupted, that must be checked by courage and wisdom. Mother spoke of shadows, father spoke of a world in the sky. The legend of—

---

The dawn kisses the sky gold; I rise, Queen of High Rule.

She wanted, wished, loved with all her heart. Fervent until her last breath.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

Once, many eons ago, he knew what it was that he could be called. It was important this name, it gave others power over him. And he'd been stupid in his youth, he'd trusted and all he remembered now was how he had become trapped with this bubble. He'd stopped moving or caring somewhere along the travel of time. This carrier never broke, never so much as dented. It simply bobbed as his captor moved or settled when they stilled. He wished sometimes he could remember the face of his betrayal.

It's a dreary day of rain when things begin to change.

He settles down in the basin of the bubble and bathes in the water that drips inside before it can leaked out the bottom. He is lethargic and the elegance of his forked tail is ruined. It has been plucked and over-groomed from stress again but the feathers will grow back. They also do. But he remains here and he fears he always will.

There are angry voices and he frowns at the racket. At least he should have peace if he is to be entrapped for eternity. But the voices continue, red hot and he becomes aware of memories he had long forgotten. He can see the face that betrayed him. He can remember his wings and the way his tail forks into two tips. He can remember flight and freedom. And as the voice of his captor disappears, as a thud hits the ground, he remembers who he is.

He is a hu—the bubble pops.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.