A/N: Okay, I have no idea what inspired me to create this thing... Yes, it is kind of sick, but hell, why not just do it? Uh...don't, like...send me dead squirrels in the mail or anything...

A darkness had descended upon the farm; the dried-out, usually golden grass appearing as black as coal, and the little pond in the distance catching the picturesque image of the moon, with thousands of twinkling stars surrounding it, in its still, glass-like reflection.

A small farmhouse stood on the highest of the rolling hills; a beaten dirt path leading to its front door from the equally beaten dirt road. The house was not opulent, nor did it seem very homely—from first glance—but it was built well; and though a rather repugnant shade of brown, with rusty, off-white blinds, it did have its slight amount of charm. Perhaps it was the cattle skull hanging above the door, but something about the entire air of the little farmhouse seemed congruent with its surroundings.

A single, dimmed light was glowing hauntingly through the furthest window to the right, upon staring directly forwards. An oil lamp, it was. And through the window, there was a silhouette of a man, hunched over, apparently writing something at a desk.

A stone building stood next to the little house, and though a few pieces of the roof, and the back wall, had fallen to the dusty ground, where they now sat in little heaps, it looked sturdy. Atop the farmhouse stood an iron weathervane in the form of a rooster on an arrow, pointing in the direction: west.

A low whistle of wind snaking its way through the tall, stiff grasses surrounding the peeled front door of the little homestead was the only sound in the darkened, Spanish countryside. The trees rustled as well, a few of the dried out leaves tumbling to the earth from the slight movement. They crashed onto the dusty land waiting beneath them, stirring no dust, and going unnoticed, waiting to die completely. They had been released from their mother, and thus, waited.

A slight distance from the farmhouse, down yet another beaten dusty path, there was an old barn. It was a reddish-brown, as if it had simply lost its brilliant color over time, and had collected far too much dust. Some of the paint was flaking off in some areas, and through the white paint, the old wood could be seen. One of the windows had a broken pane, covered so thickly in dust and grime that it was uncertain if it could ever be cleaned. A large hen sat atop the other windowpane, sleeping peacefully along with the others, up in the roof.

A dim light peeked through one of the lower level windows, swaying slightly, and blocked from ever truly escaping the confines of the barn by the filthy panes of glass. A bit of tumbleweed blew by on the dust laden trail, stirring up a little dirt on its way. A mule in the grass was awake, but silent, watching the distance, as if waiting for something to appear over the hill. The creature lazily swatted any flies with its tail, shaking its large head every now and again. Beside the mule lay a horse; pure black, and watching the east, her long mane blowing to the west, ruffling and yet, somehow only enhancing her already intense natural beauty. She shook her great head and released a little snort, stirring up a small dust cloud as she did so.

The barn door was opened, though very minimally; only a crack. The sounds of hooves tapping against a dust trodden ground wandered out into the night air. The light in the window moved, as if being carried, which it was.

Inside the old barn a young man led one of the horses out of its place in the stables. He led the beast into another part of the barn, piled to the rafters with hay in one corner, and straw in the other. The horse followed dutifully, wandering right behind the young man, bumping against his shoulder in a decidedly affectionate way with her muzzle, covered in miniscule hairs, and softer than an infant’s skin. The young man smiled over his shoulder at the creature, and reached back to pet her on the throat. She released a small neigh in response, shaking her head, and tousling her gray mane in the process.

“Come on now,” The young man muttered, leading her into the middle of the room. He came to a stop, and she followed his lead. They stopped and looked at one another for a time, as they happened to do every night.

A small cot sat in the corner of the room; the mattress made of hay with two potato sacks thrown over it for comfort. An apple crate sat next to the bed for possessions, the worn label on the side stating: Las manzanas de Sarsola desde que 1893¹

The two beings stared at one another, and the young man slowly took a step forward. The brilliantly white mare just watched him levelly; not moving an inch. He reached up and ran his calloused hands along her long, strong, muscular neck. The perfect softness of the lamp bathed her muscular body in a lovely orange glow, accentuating her strong form.

Casimiro was a boy of no more than nineteen. He was average in height, and his black hair was slightly shaggy. He was well built from all his work on the farm, his upper body trimmed perfectly with muscle. His lovely dark skin was worn from hard labor, and now glistened with sweat, in the hot summer night. He adorned worn blue jeans, beaten brown work boots, a plaid button up shirt, and a Stetsons, which he took off and tossed to the cot in the corner. It didn’t make it entirely and wound up tumbling to the straw covered ground with a small thud. It was promptly ignored by Casimiro, who was slowly sliding towards the great mare, Elvira.

Casimiro continued to run his hands along the great mare’s neck as he settled into her body, embracing her. If anyone attempted to saddle Elvira and ride her, they were immediately thrown off. But not Casimiro. Elvira whinnied slightly, shaking her head again, and nuzzling his shoulder. The two stood thus for a long while, embracing one another, relishing in the feel of the other.

Casimiro pulled away from the mare and looked up into her large black eyes, her long eyelashes accentuating the deepness of those seemingly never-ending, dark, mysterious, lovely eyes that he adored so much. She was a beautiful creature, and no one could tell him otherwise. He watched her close for a moment, and she affectionately rubbed her muzzle against his cheek. He smiled when he felt the hot, humid air ghost past his sweat gleaming face. No one could tell him otherwise...

“Don’t you think it’s somewhat...odd for a man of your age to believe in such things?” Dr. Gamez said quietly from the other side of the room. It was 1933. Casimiro stood in the middle of the barn, holding Elvira as he often did.

“No,” He responded shortly.

“Do you really believe that she can hear you?” The doctor demanded, watching their interaction closely. Casimiro usually would have kept away from Elvira when someone else was in the barn, but she didn’t seem to want to leave him while they were in this stranger’s company.

“Of course she can.” Casimiro said simply.

“She is a horse; can horses talk?” The psychiatrist asked him slowly, as if communicating with a young child. Casimiro stays silent, finding no need to answer such a ridiculous question. “Can they?” The doctor asked again. He was an aging man, perhaps mid-forties, and had a rather large stomach straining against his cotton shirt.

“Of course they can.” The young man sighed, annoyed.

“Oh really?”

“Of course; every being can speak, perhaps we just can’t understand them.” Casimiro muttered.

“Can she understand you, then?” He asked, still in the same child-scolding tone.

“Not verbally, but I’m sure she can feel me.” He sighed, “What being can’t feel?” He asked quietly.

“Everything can feel, that is true, but do you really believe that she feels what you’re thinking?”

“No, she feels what I give to her.” Casimiro responded flatly. “If I slapped her, I’m sure she would know that I was upset with her.”

“But why do you wish for her to receive what you should be giving to a nice young girl your age? Being your affection, and interest.” He muttered, scribbling a few things down on his slate.

“Because,” Casimiro said quietly. “I don’t have a girl my age,”

“You could easily find one, a nice, good looking lad like yourself.”

“I don’t want one.” He said simply.

“And why ever not?” Dr. Gamez muttered, scribbling on his slate still.

“I have Elvira,” Casimiro said simply.

“Why do you have the mare?” The doctor sighed, feeling as if he was getting nowhere fast in this conversation.

“Because I love her...”

That had been a little over a year ago, and the doctor had long since stopped coming by when someone had refused to pay him, because Casimiro had yet to be cured of his delusion. He thanked god for this; he could never stand that man’s questions.

Casimiro gently slipped Elvira into her bridle and hoisted himself up on her bareback. She stood motionless as he moved around slightly, finding the proper position so that they would both be comfortable enough.

The two wandered out of the barn from the back, sneaking by the farmhouse, which had long since gone pitch black, indicating that the farmer had gone off to sleep in his cozy bed with his wife.

Casimiro stroked her long neck as they went slowly down the beaten path. “Wonderful, Elvira,” He smiled, noting that she avoided a little divot in the cut-line he was just about to steer her away from. The two wandered slowly along the road, Casimiro’s hand abruptly slapping her gently on the backside. They picked up a little speed, and trotted to a large open field, tucked away from the farm’s view. Casimiro took a deep breath of air and smiled to himself, kicking her lightly on the sides. They once again picked up speed.

The two were now moving in a slow run, the wind brushing past their faces in a gentle caress. “Faster, Elvira,” Casimiro grinned, his eyes gently fluttering closed. He lightly kicked her sides again, and she once again sped up. They were still not going fast enough. He wanted to hear the wind rushing past his ears like his own private hurricane. He kicked her sides harder than before and she broke into a gallop, practically flying through the field.

Casimiro grinned happily, the wind rushing past his ears, releasing a high-pitched whirring noise. He could feel, beneath his hands, the sweat break out over her lovely neck. Her mane stood straight in the air with the wind, rushing behind her in her ecstatic haste. He could tell that she enjoyed riding with him; she always did.

“Can you go any faster?” He asked loudly, wishing to hear himself over the wind. “Let’s go faster!” He kicked her sides again and she pushed her legs to the extreme. They had left the farmhouse far behind, running on their own trail, rushing past the dense trees to their left, and a crashing river to their right.

They were in heaven.

The farmer never took Elvira out, because she was too temperamental about who rode her. He called her a: useless bitch, better off as meat for the dogs. Casimiro never told him how much that killed him to hear him say that about Elvira; he would never understand. And so, because the farmer could not ride Elvira, Casimiro did when he wasn’t looking. She had looked so lonely that first day he had passed her in the stable. She was there in her little cell, standing in her own waste, kicking out with such rage, and intensity, he had at first been afraid of her. But her eyes...to him they seemed lonely, and scared, not angry. The next day when the farmer took her out to the corral, Casimiro had cleaned out her stable, which had been a god awful experience, and when she returned, she seemed sated, after her initial rage about being dragged outside by her master.

Slowly they had come to know one another. Casimiro slept in the barn, and so did Elvira, and somehow, as if by some divine force, they had come to a tolerance, which grew into a friendship, which grew into a love. Casimiro loved Elvira more than he could ever love some woman his age. The thought of a woman did not bother him, and it even sometimes got him through long nights, but the thought of his perfect Elvira was just so much more to him than that. She was not an object in which to quell his lust, as he thought women were, she was move than anyone could understand...

Elvira gradually slowed down, their sprint having dissipated into a trot once again. Her breathing was heavy, and his eyes were still closed in euphoria. He loved to ride with her. He had never felt so close to anyone, as he felt when he and Elvira rode through the night together. They had made it rather far, and Casimiro directed her back towards the farmhouse, patting her great neck with his rough hand. She didn’t seem to mind; letting out a great neigh of appreciation.

He could feel the sweat on her body and smiled. She had gotten a proper run tonight. Like she deserved. He was sure that this is what making love was like. Being so close, and so in tune with another being, both of you feeling as if you’re on the top of the world, both of you feeling unstoppable...and so loved... Casimiro felt loved. Elvira allowed him to sit upon her back, unlike any other, for all others got cast aside immediately after mounting. She was a wildfire; that was for damn sure.

Elvira was a raging, wild spirit, trapped in her everyday containment, and enslavement. He had to make sure that she would no longer feel enslaved, or trapped. She would be free, and she would run and jump through the fields, taking him along with her for the ride. They would run together, happy to simply be.

As the farmhouse came slowly into view, Casimiro looked at Elvira’s great, luxurious head. They would run free together or at least at night.

His daytime duty...

His constant obsession...

His lifelong friend...

His nighttime love...

¹ The Apples of Sarsola Since 1893

A/N: Huh...I think I have gone downhill, at this point... I will get writing Beseech Nobility, I promise.