Some quiet tension marred the scene, setting the boy's nerves on ice, taut muscles shivering in anticipation. Through the dingy dusk Zèklè peered, waiting for what must have been eternity: for in that time a million scenarios raced through his mind, each more fantastic than the last. Was it another horse, or perhaps a different animal, or a dragon? Maybe a companion waiting to be liberated (let us not forget, after all, whose son we deal with), wanting him to set it free? Was it a spirit, or a fallen god; was it a demon, a monster, a vile beast from below the earth, innocently guised to swallow him whole?

Zèklè had yet to learn that the simplest answer was usually the most likely, because each seemed more plausible, more real, than the last.

Despite his increasingly fantastic suppositions as to what had caused the squish, the boy easily recognized and reconciled the presence of another horse. The tiny voice which reached him set Zèklè immediately at his ease; the lightning backed boy slackened, muscles growing loose, and took an eager step closer to the echoed Hello. Black-rimmed ears stood alert among his tousled mane. He nearly stumbled in his eagerness, his relieved overtaking of the hurdle of unknown, his desire to know, now that he knew not to fear.

Thistles broke and bent beneath his mass, a path clearing in the space between the boy and the squishy spot, until her, a girl, came into view, and again the boy stopped.

Sunbeam eyes soaked her in with an innocent, well-meant curiosity. She was much smaller than him, maybe even the smallest other horse he had ever seen, with a black front and a white back and two tiny, useless wings. A baby- and immediately the boy feels something new, a fierce need to protect, to guide, to take care of this thing which is somehow even less well versed in the world than he, more lost than he thinks he must ever have been. Certainly he was never that small, never that softly spoken, with such a broken, delicate speech.

Where was her Ma? She was far to young to be out on her own- and again the boy's naive hypocrisy shone through his thoughts, an innocent judgment upon a creature who was born not more than two seasons after he. But the boy lacked the cruelty to make his concern malicious. No condescension yet knew how to eek into his voice. No, Zèklè smiled, a gentle expression on a usually broiled, reckless face. "Zah-a?" he repeated, boyish voice gentle. "Is that your name?" It was, obviously, and he quickly added, "That's a cool name. It's... cute!"

(That's what she was, he realized. She was incredibly cute.)

She could obviously talk, at least a little bit, and Zèklè had no reason to suspect she could not understand. Still, he questioned (relatively) slowly, keeping his sunbeam eyes on her two-tone face. "Are you okay? Where's your Ma? She's prob'ly lookin' for you. My Ma would be, 'cept I'm not little 'nymore."

This last part was spoken in the sage voice of a child who was older, and knew it. The situation had stirred some latent sense of responsibility in the boy - he found her, so he was responsible for her. Where was her Ma? He shifted away from her, raising his head to peer through the dark... but there was no sign of an adult, of anyone. Maybe she had gotten lost, like he did all the time? Maybe he could help take her home. Maybe he could be her hero.

He looked down, the grin returned to his face. "My name's Zèklè, but y'can call me Zero. Hey!" Zèklè exclaimed, suddenly noticing the little green eyes which stared out from the downy fluff of the filly - Zah-a - from a distorted, concealed face. "Who's your friend?"

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