Shivering and shaken the colt of gaia and stone dug his hooves into mother earth beneath, the moss raking and collecting under each overgrown toe. Sliding his body into a rigid, trembling heap at the foot of the Father oak, the earthly being almost missed the approach of one who might well be his saviour.
The most pink eyelids, diaphanous and near translucent had begun to hover over his eyes of brother air and sister sea, not bothering to wonder where he might find them or if they would be so bold as to search for him. These were, more or less, figments of his imagination; his own religion and creed, the kind he'd made up in the absence any other. It was his own creation, unshakable and strong, and perhaps no one would ever convince the boy that he was not born of the soil and leaves, or mountains and rivers.


The stranger had approached, her figure dark and ominous among the cover of leaf and twig. With a gasp the bairn's eyes sprung wide, his hooves scampering atop the moss until he has coiled completely against the tree.
'Geronimo?' she had spoken, a voice as tender as mountain thunder. The boy relaxed, his shoulders rolling forward to accept the ground beneath his spring-like stance, cloud-coloured eyes keeling forward to take in the sight of an equine. She looked... exactly like him? Of course, the colour of their hides did vary, but the pale boy was more than enchanted to see a horse for the first time in what he thought was forever. With no memory of his parents, only ever raised by the strict and hard-working Bison herd, the colt was more than in awe to find someone just like him. His head rising from the moss, ears pricked and feeble legs at the ready, the boy of the Bison made his move. Spilling slightly as he launched himself to his feet, though managing to steady himself upon his front legs, Geronimo soon found his way to the gold and black mare.
Quickly he found a licking to the shape and colour of her hooves, noticing how his grew in a similar fashion. How many more were there like them? Were they in their hundreds like the bison, or in their few like the eagle? So many questions, yet no language to ask.
"Geronimo!" he came to shout at the sight of the maned wolf, his pale body dashing under the woman's left wing for cover. "Geronimo!" He would bleat again, nose pointing towards the predator.