Getting a cutie mark and growing up is frustrating enough for more babbens. Revenant feels particularly cursed that he’s too busy questioning his actions to have time to waste on getting his mark. It’s not fair. Pale Moonlight doesn’t need to try, he’s naturally gifted in it- in his elegance and seriousness. Even married that super pretty and also elegant mare, too. Moonlight was like their mama, like who Revenant wanted to be. Even if he couldn’t be serious and graceful, he also wasn’t able to just embrace how he was like Lemure of Love Lost. She was always so comfortable how she was, well except for her legs on occasion, but she had no problem being her desperately romantic self.
Him, though? He spent all his time worrying about looking too goofy. That he wasn’t as poised as his mothers, what with his penchant for stumbling through walls and falling through floor. Not even to mention his various wistful infatuations- the hours he has spent making lovesick eyes at pretty fillies and handsome colts across the playground, never daring to walk over and ask if they wanted to play. Or just talk with him.
Just as he had today. More hours wasted, just watching and never approaching. The little colt knew what could take his mind off of it, at least. The art of it had taken a while, not to mention convincing his moms he was safe, but when a day felt rougher he’d work his way down to his little fort in the basement of their home. Through a hallway of stacked boxes he could pretend were the walls of a great stone building, into a ‘secret’ room he had made for himself, all the clutter cleared away so he could add his own safely in the back. Old pillows and blankets made for a good resting place, a box for him to put his papers and journals hiding his most secret thoughts. Candles about on old chipped plates, slowly lit one after another. He could pretend he was in an antique house of an age gone past by the candlelight, the old sheets hung against the wall pretending to be mighty embroidered curtains blocking out sunlight.
This was his play-space. Secluded from prying eyes where he could strut with his head held high like a finely dressed lord might have. He could recite poems and short stories of the greats before him without fear of being overheard, letting his voice flow even without the need to fear. Moonlight could have his refined music and Lemure could search for her love, but Revenant entrenched himself in a dark romanticization. Moody stories, read before or yet to be written, danced in his mind as he paced about in slowly winding figure eights, evening each hoofstep until he practically glided across the concrete floor, as spectral and dignified as his ghostly presence should be.
He’d spend the night lost in his own world, unaware of how well he held himself or how funny his face turned when he finally sat down to write. The flicker of candlelight and the smell of smoke just helped the trance of it, wax droplets a welcome mar to his journals, giving it character and life as much as his even quillscratchings did. This was his world of moody prose and gloomy demises, his writing space as lit from his own natural glow as it was from the candles. This eternally dusk world of dreamy dramatics.
