Seventh - The Flying Horse

Ever since that night he hadn't been able to get the idea out of his head, the idea of a flying horse that she spoke of fascinated him to no end and he wondered how it would look like and perhaps his mind was just odd enough conjure up such a strange beast.

He had never drawn a horse and when he tried to sketch it up he realized he had no idea how a horse's anatomy worked and so he took a long walk. He followed the main path that leads through Breeland and he stopped at every farm to look at the horses he could find, he would stop at the stables in the town and was tempted to visit the horse-farm further north but it would take too long. 
The horses he found were not good enough, they were too slender. If a horse was meant to have wings he needed something more powerful, the riding horses were not enough.
It wasn't until he stumbled upon a large farm outside the town that he saw a great beast in the fields, large and powerful. He recalled seeing such a horse before, a plow-horse that had replaced the oxen; a symbol of good wealth and a prosperous farm.

It was perfect. Such a horse he could see carry itself on powerful wings and so he watched the horse through the day, it's movements and form all put to memory that he would take home.
He had found his horse and now he needed the wings. Those were easy enough to find and so for the rest of the day, he found himself watching chickens and even assuming that he had made friends with one that kept coming over to peck at his boots.

Finally, he could begin his work.

Over the next few days he spent hours putting the image in his head down onto the parchment that he had been gifted, each line carefully placed and his mind emptying and his body turning more relaxed as he fell into his work; the soothing and distracting work.
It was strange to place wings on a horse but at the same time, it made sense, somehow. Yet his mind was not happy with it, still, it wasn't what he wanted, it demanded more. He thought back on an old tale that he had been told when he was just a boy about a strange horse deep in the southern lands, stubby with an oxtail and a horn upon its nose. The idea intrigued him and so he added such traits to his own horse and enjoyed the outcome.

Little by little the winged horse took form and drew further away from anything normal, a mythical creature that had been born from her words. It made him grin.
He placed the pencil down to study the work he had done, he was rather happy with the oddity he had created but he still felt like he could do more, he needed it to stand out further. His eyes fell towards the crimson inkwell he had been given and he wondered.

The following day he gathered up some of his belongings and made way to the market, reluctantly selling his things. A couple of knives were sacrificed, his scarf and winter jacket along with one of the small gilded chains that he had pried off from his beloved red attire; his grandfather would simply have to forgive him for it.
With the coin gotten from the trade, he bought himself a pair of brushes from the scholars, both well crafted and precise, or so he was promised.

The following evenings he spent at the table experimenting what he could do with the red and black ink when he thinned it with water or when he mixed the two. Each stroke had to be carefully placed as there were no rooms for mistakes, this was not for himself after all. 
Lastly, there was the white for the horse's nose to finish the work. He rose from his seat and stepped to the cupboard where he had hidden away a small jar of white dye that he had slipped into his pocket when the tailor's back was turned. One day he would make it up to her, probably.

It was early morning when he returned home to finally finish the last bits of the artwork he was creating and as he sat down to begin his work he could not help but smile. Today would be the day he would have it finished, today would be the day he would show her his work. What he had drawn would not make sense to others but at least it would make some sense to her and hopefully, she would not mind the mess on the parchment.