Ni'Srilan: The Desert: Ashes to a s h e s

Loss; it scalded his thoughts and simmered in the back of his brain. His every step was haunted, his every movement cursed. Somewhere, in a land far away, what remained of Serothiel's family hated his very name and grieved for the life he had taken, and the weight of their sorrows and their pain became his own, despite the separation. A bitter snarl curled back his lips and bared a wall of teeth, and when he moved he was smoke darkening the sky. Ink sinking into the pores of the earth. Burning - he felt it crawling up his skin and along his legs and the feeling increased until he was running, running like hell opened wide behind him(I am afraid). A fever moved in his blood and consumed him; the dead sun loomed coldly overhead and he tried to run away from her, to run until it was night every day and he couldn't feel the scars disfiguring his legs.

(afraid of what is waiting)

He ran until his sides heaved and sweated foam and he watched his shadow flit over a lonely snake. It rattled a warning and slipped away, and he was alone again. Alone inside his head where it was summer every day even though the sun was gone(what becomes of murderers?). He could still hear her voice, distantly, like silver raindrops on the scorched desert. It frightened him; he startled at the wind and danced sideways and his ragged tail slapped against one sunken flank. Only then did Serothiel really pause to look around him, look at the red sand sprawling out until forever and the massive sky arching down to meet it. High above, so distant it seemed a dream, the sun hovered like a reflection in a shallow pool. Impossible. Serothiel pinned his ears. The world here was inside out, like a nightmare and he couldn't wake up. His hooves danced over naked earth and when he brushed against the brittle plants they drove needles into his naked skin. He leapt again, straight up, and danced uneasily. The liquid light glinted hot off the scars on his legs and his chest, and he paused for a moment to look at them. To hate them all over again. Back in the place he was running away from, black hair covered the skin and made it beautiful - befitting a prince. In his memory, fire danced before his eyes and ate away at the black hair and left the scars and he sighed as the wind tugged gently at his mane again. He was not who he used to be; his crown was broken, lying in pieces some thousand miles back. Whatever happened there now, it didn’t concern him.

Somewhat more gracefully, the slender shape of the black colt turned and continued onward. The wind covered his tracks and his eyes scoured the barren plain condescendingly. Never before had he seen such red earth, and so bare of life. It screamed far distant of his home beneath the trees and he snorted, putting his composure back together piece by piece. "What an ugly place." What a convincing mask. Serothiel curled his lip and rested more comfortably beneath his mangled skin(no one can see me in here).