Disgrace [A Loki Fanfiction]

Chapter 9 - Travel

   The moment we are able to afford making noise with the Searan's six hooves, I wack it on the hind with a small, thin whip the stablemaster had given me. It rears, and Loki's grip on my waist tightens, before setting off at a pace I had never moved before. 

   Father had never allowed me to run with the Searan, but for some reason, they were always very calm around me.

   I speculate that we have less than three hours before Monolym will rise, by which time we must find a place for the Searan to rest, and eat. Luckily, the ground here is much more fertile. From what I can see, small flowers grow here and there, and patches of grass accompany them.

   The hours pass slowly, and my legs begin to hurt. I become more aware of Loki's grip on my waist, which had, in the last hour, slowly lowered to my hips. I wonder whether he is falling asleep. Either way, my skin tickles strangely, but I resolve that it is because of the slight chill in the wind.

   Finally, the first rays of sunshine show themselves, and I can see a few trees here and there. They do not have many leaves, but at their bases grow large flowers. I pull the Searan to a stop where a tree hides behind a cluster of stones, and tie it to the trunk before stretching my legs and falling down on the ground, rubbing my stinging eyes.

   "What exactly is that?" Loki asks, watching the Searan lick nectar from the inside of the flowers.

   "It's a Searan," I say.

   "But why does it have nostrils on its legs, and, I might add, three pais of legs?" he asks. I stare at him. "Asguard's horses have two pairs of legs, and their noses are on their faces."

   "These are the fastest creatures used for travel," I tell him, "They are usually grey. Black ones are quite rare."

   "Is that why you insisted on having this one?"

   "Not so much that than the fact that, perhaps it would be bought by some rich gaffaw who will treat it with no respect," I say, reaching upwards and rubbing its leg.

   "What will you name it?"

   "Name it?" I inquire.

   "People usually name their pets."

   "Oh," I say with a frown, "In that case, its name shall be Nolbri."

   We eat in silence and alternate sleeping before setting off again. The hours stretch into days, and finally into weeks. We meet no civilisation, apart from the odd Wyrran or Lamruil. A few green birds fluttered over our heads once, but no Lythmians travelled this road, only a scholar once or twice a year.

   The stale bread becomes less than we can afford to have, and finally we are resolved to eating half a loaf a day, and hunt for the rest of the necessary food. My experience in hunting Wyrran are still hardwired into my blood, so meat is no problem. Whichever berries Nolbri finds comfortable enough to eat, we trust as well.

   As we travel, Loki tells me more of Asgard, and I tell him more about Lythmia and the war. 

   "As far as the tales go," I say, "The war started when my father was only a boy. Lythmia was in need of more resources, as it was becoming overpopulated, and Donthio was rich with everything. The Donthions do not procreate as freely as the Lythmians, as they do not feel the need for it. Mother once told me that, from what she saw of the prisoners that used to be in the dungeons underneath the palace, all they wanted was to admire the enviroment around them, specifically plants. She was not in favour of the tortures they were put through in exchange for the locations of their richest meadows. She said that, once, when she brought them a little food that she had managed to sneak out of the kitchens, a group of them were clustered around a single plant that managed to survive through the cracks of the dungeon floor. As she watched, they started chanting to the plant, and it grew."