“Something is wrong...” her weathered voice breathed apprehensively as she labelled him “Druid”. Though rimmed with softness, the words carelessly spilt confusion and concern into her newborn’s damp ears. He did not move where he lay, even as the old mare’s rough lips nuzzled dissatisfied about his weak, underdeveloped body. She did not clean this one like she did the others; her instincts could not find their attraction. The foal had been born too early the practiced mother knew, as the sudden onset of labour had been induced by her own ailing health.

She coughed sharply, and her child startled in the darkness- a strangely bitter contrast to the vivid sun-soaked day. “So you are alive.” the mare responded to the unexpected manner of his jerk, assessing his seemingly limp frame with a glazed look of disdain. Pity swelled in the old horse’s tired heart, yet disgust choked her compassion and she turned from him, heaving the bulk of her weight forward and up off the grass which lay crushed beneath. “You need to stand if there is any chance for you to survive...” She did not turn to see if the tiny creature would follow her somewhat detached directive; perhaps she hoped secretly that he could not, that way he would not be a burden to her pride.

The alien sound of his mother did not feed his infantile yearning to be loved; nor did the touch of her to his thin wet coat bring warmth and security. The foal listened where he lay, but did not understand the grave disappointment diluting the sincerity of her words. There was only darkness. The small slits of his nostrils sucked thirstily at the warm, dry air but blood and fluid still clung to the fine bristly hairs within them and he could not smell. Mother and child failed to connect. Her warmth braced him slightly, allowed his feeble body to configure a mild strength, though when she lifted from his side a sickening sense of abandonment ricocheted through him. Impulsively, and after many stumbling attempts to find his unsteady feet, he followed the trail of her voice. It was not an easy task, and he floundered in his darkness, his bony legs snagging in the sheltering thicket, tiny half-moon hooves slipping on scattered stone. Regardless he continued forward as though pulled to her by a brittle, (fractured) chain.

She did not wait for him; she did not want to be seen publicly. The mare journeyed swiftly and indifferently, to the closeness of woodland even further from her homeland. Only when the spindly shadows of pines dappled her identity did she pause, offering herself begrudgingly to the ugly foal to nurse for the first time. He did catch her, and drank feverishly until he was full. Then he collapsed in a weary pile onto the coolness of the grassless forest floor. Already the mare planned to leave him. She would let him nurse less and less over the course of a month (she knew that she risked excruciating engorgement if he did not wean gradually). She did not want this child though; such a malformed creature was not of her clean blood.

~

The stranger lingered, and Druid heard the soft heave of a sigh. He tucked his chin close beside the warm curve of his throat, and his ears paused mid-flick erect and ever focused. Words filled the vacant space about him once again and they did not remind him of his mother; the prickly mare, whose so had ungraciously seared worthlessness into his meek and very vulnerable heart. “N...n...no,” the small colt answered, maybe not understanding the meaning behind his company’s questioning. Again his nose moved forward, and through fluttering nostrils he tested the stallion’s scent once more. It lingered, the permanence of his presence crafting a more notable impression in the motionless air. He supposed the other horse would be doing similarly (blindly searching, whisker brushing against whisker) and withdrew his face diffidently, satisfied and eager to avoid confusing the plainness of the situation with physical contact.

“Th...There is no one.” The foal affirmed blandly, and realised as he did so that it meant he was in fact alone. “W...w...w...whoops.” He yielded awkwardly to his mistake, stepping backwards and leaning closely against his tree. Perhaps it would swallow him whole, and this strange, increasingly complicated exchange would vanish- a child’s response indeed. Druid’s unrehearsed approach lacked confidence, and he was quickly noticing that his broken words were upsetting the fluidity of the conversation. They were not flowing like so many of the conversations that he had witnessed during the week passed. The colt did not speak often as he was not socially adept, introverted; he couldn’t find a place for himself amongst those whose voices seemed so gracefully to mingle and blend. Regardless, he had finally been thrown into the mix, or so it seemed, and hesitantly the child waited- trapped by insecurity to find out his company’s reaction to that blunder.