I am happy - it is unusual for me, but I'm happy.

It's been a long time coming. All my life, I just was; I existed, without a purpose other than the endless plodding with humans on my back, with nothing more to excite me than warm oats on a winter's night. I was bred to do the two-legged's bidding, and although I was content and never ill-treated or anxious, I was never happy. My accidental escape into the wild (twice!) has brought me a new lease of life, one I never wanted but that I've embraced with open arms. The Throat's trust in me has given me a confidence that I'd never before possessed, and I adore the responsiblity that comes with it. Helping people, fixing people - I've finally found my calling. For the first time in my life, I open my eyes in the morning with my jaws aching from smiling; I look forward to what a new day brings, instead of dreading the monotony than sunrise holds.

I am happy - and I should have known it wouldn't, couldn't, last.

It is a normal, chilly Frostfall day. My winter coat is thick and fluffy, and my remaining fat stores act as insulation against the cold. I graze contentedly, always keeping a keen eye out for any herbs I can stuff into my halter, and an equally keen ear out for predators. When I hear a welcoming whicker, I look up, intrigued - the sight that greets me makes my eyes widen and my heartbeat race. "Mother?" The tall bay mare smiles down at me, her kind chocolate-brown eyes fixed on my face. I haven't seen her for years - she was sold a year or so before I escaped into the wild, and I thought I would never see her again. We shared a pasture, even after the traumatic day when I was first taken from her to be weaned and trained. It was never the same as the halcyon days of my early colthood, but I was always extremely close to her, and heartbroken when she was sold. "Mother!" My whinny is joyous, and I thrust out my nose to sniff against her own, my whiskers twitching greedily. To my surprise, she flinches away from my touch; she turns and moves into a canter, peeking over her shoulder and huffing for me to follow.

I obey. Stupidly, I obey. I can't pass up this chance to spend time with my beloved dam, despite the warning bells howling in my head.

I follow her through the snow, my short limbs struggling to keep up with her longer, flashier stride. Finally she slows, and so do I. I turn, moving to try and embrace her again, and that's when I see the sadness in her eyes. The apology on her lips. My muzzle touches her, goes through her, and she disappears into a cloud of smoke.

I hear harsh words, the guttural none-horse tones that I've not heard in a year. I feel ropes fastening around my neck, dextrous fingers gripping my worn, battered leather halter, hands frantically stroking my sweaty neck and trying in vain to soothe me.

I notice nothing. I cry for my mother, a high-pitched bellow of anguish ripping free from my throat as I realise she was nothing but a horrendously realistic magical apparition.

And these are no ordinary two-leggeds. They are slight, slender, where humans are ungainly and bulky. Their eyes glow every colour under the sun, and their ears are pointed beneath braided silver hair. They exude magical prowess, whereas humans shun the very notion. For a moment, I wonder why they've hunted me down - why they've used their powers to create my mother, to lure me into their trap. What am I to them? Why do I matter? Why can't I have my mother?

I flatten my ears and begin to thrash against my chains. I have never intentionally tried to hurt a two-legged in my life, but I kick savagely out with my hooves, lurch my jaws downwards to pepper bites at whatever pink flesh I can reach, swing and flail like a wild stallion. They can't have me. They can't take me from my happiness, my family, my herd, my Erthë. Oh, Erthë! What will she think if she never sees me again? She will assume I've abandoned her, as I solemnly promised never to do!

More ropes ensnare me, and they are stronger than tempered steel - they are magical. Still I refuse to submit, but the more I struggle the more ropes they fling onto me. Their words are not unkind, and none of them attempt to smack or punish me, but the very fact they're taking me away from my home is punishment enough. My cry shatters the peaceful winter air, and I pray others will heed it - if not to save me, then at least to witness what's happening, so they can tell my herd, so the Throat knows I haven't left through choice. Not to save me - because I realise I cannot be saved - but to let the world know.

I continue to thrash, but the fight's dying from my eyes. I know I cannot win - the two-leggeds, with their thumbs and their weapons, are always stronger. One of them, a female, whispers kind words into my ear, and I feel the pull of magic in my mind as she tries to calm me, but I'm numb to anything except the desire to escape. It is futile, and their ropes tighten around my legs and body. They heave, and I'm dragged along behind them.

I manage to twist my head, to glance backwards at the beautiful land I'm leaving. Fear almost paralyzes me, and my angry bellows turn to terrified whimpers. I pray I will see Erthë in the distance one final time before I'm gone, and I beg the Gods to look after her in my absence. Please. It's the thought of leaving her that cripples me, and panic floods me.

I entered Helovia willingly, albeit unintentionally. I leave it not of my own volition, but at the forceful hands of creatures I thought I'd never see again. Suddenly I feel my flesh tingle, and I realise the two-leggeds are using magic again; I don't know it yet, but I'm being teleported alongside the pointy-eared thieves. As my vision blurs and the world around me explodes into blackness, I focus on the horizon that I may never see again, and watch the sun rise until I see nothing but darkness.