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December snorted, but it was not the sort to betray any sort of emotion. Frankly, the old mare didn’t even suspect the gesture to imply any feeling. The giantess was likely only clearing air from her lungs, for that was what Sheba had summed her up to be: straightforward, as close as any creature can get to honest, and practical, if not rather dull. Despite her lingering doubts about the mare’s motivations, however, Sheba did not fear that the draft would bring her harm. December wanted her well, that was clear enough—it was just the matter of why that eluded her.
“Pah. I rather think you give an old woman too much credit,” Sheba replied dismissively, but she smiled grimly all the same at the image that December’s unexpected humor had conjured. The larger mare moved a step towards her, and stiffly she did likewise, so as to better converse with the giantess. She felt December’s eyes studying her, probably checking for signs of how her patient had fared in her absence. Sheba let her. As far as she was concerned, it was neither here nor there: she felt no better and no worse. Surely, she would have liked the cozy darkness of her cave again, or at the very least, a decent meal, but the old mare knew that neither would restore to her what she once had possessed. How much farther was there to fall from grace?
But December said nothing about her condition, merely commented on the coming season and her peculiar choice of winter residence. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Sheba returned wanly, shrugging slightly as she looked around the grove. The deep snow hadn’t given her many options, but at least the barrier that kept her in seemed to have kept most amorous couples out. As if the thought had reminded her of her of her own mate, December turned. Behind her, Sheba craned her neck. “He should be here soon,” the draft rumbled, adding as if an afterthought, “He often takes his time with things.”
I hope for your sake he does, the old mare thought rather lewdly, wondering exactly what the giantess’ mate would be like. She pictured another like her companion: slow, lumbering, simple, not at all refined…but gentle, with serious eyes and a voice like thunder. Likely someone steady would suit December, Sheba mused, sizing her up, someone perhaps not overly affectionate but attentive to his lover: a good man, as they liked to say. Not that she had ever known one, but she got the feeling that the giantess would not tolerate the arrogant nonsense that most stallions seemed prone to.
“Well I’m certainly not going anywhere,” was all she said, with only a touch of sarcasm. Let him come now, later or never. What difference would it make? So they stood in silence together, breath coming in warm puffs against the cold air, waiting for December’s love.
Needless to say, when he did make his appearance, it was not at all what Sheba had been expecting. No drafty counterpart with gravelly voice revealed himself, but instead the buttermilk-colored pegasus from many seasons ago came trooping through the willows. Sheba recognized him instantly, and guessed that he had done the same, for while he made no mention of their prior meeting, his expression and stammering introduction seemed to betray as much.
She, however, was not so tactful.
”Oh, it’s you again,” Sheba muttered distastefully, casting a nearly woeful expression at December, as if this was all her fault. “And what, may I ask, have you got in store for me today? Fat lot of good you did last time—take a couple of years to think it over?”
Apparently December’s luck with men was no better than hers after all.
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