And here I thought that I was alone.

I should not expect that mother would truly leave me alone, since I am still so young, but I am quite disgruntled that I need to be babysat. I can hear her hoofbeats, and they break my concentration. My ears slick back for a short moment before I catch my temper. It would be childish to be upset in this situation, I think, and I do not want to be seen as a child. I know that I am young, but that does not make me foolish, does it?

The white of her coat is something I recognize as different from mother. Mother is dark, with a white mane that is so similar to my own. Our horns are different, though, my little stubby protrustions not centered like her own. Plus, I have strange appendages that grow from my back unlike her. They had odd little hairs that grow from them, and I believe mother called them wings. I am not very interested in my own appearance, though. Like I had said, there is so much to be seen in the world, and I will always have myself to look at, but this ephemeral world is not such a blessing.

I stare at the lake in protest of her watchful eyes, looking at the glimmer of sunlight on its glassy surface. However, this mare, pale in coloring, is persistent, and she lowers her head to my level. I give a glance with my bitoned eye, seeing the crimson that also belongs to mother. This is not mother, but her face is still familiar. I believe that I should know her, but my memory is blurry, so frustratingly blurry. I concede, turning my face to look at her with both eyes, noting the red strands in her hair.

Crimson.

It strikes somewhere in my memory, the appearance of this mare, and her voice sounds eerily familiar. More than anything, though, the scent she gives off reminds me. She was there the day mother met me. She met me as well. Who is she? Why do I know her? Is she someone mother knows? Her voice is friendly, but I do not smile, instead I tuck my head shyly down near my legs after a moment of glancing at her.

"The world is never the same," I say sullenly from between my crooked legs as I stare out at the water. "It always seems to look different, every time I blink."

I hoped that she would understand.

Her voice is very feminine. I think that it is more so than mother's. Even her faint little hum is girlish, and her pale white coat seems feminine as well. I am not sure why, but I feel like she is most definitely a lady. Mother is different, and maybe that is because she is my mother. This mare, though, was not my mother, and I realize all too suddenly that I am nervous. She is pretty, this lady, and I think that makes me uncomfortable. Mother tells me I am handsome, but I think not. Most horses do not have weird bumps on their forehead like me, and their legs are straighter. Would mine straighten with time? Would my weird forehead growths disappear?

I do not think so. Mother calls me handsome because I am hers, but most would likely disagree. This does not lead me to despair, for I am not overly vain. What I appear to look like on the outside is different from how I feel inside. Outside I am still weak, but inside I am growing very strong, I think. However, this lady looks strong outside and the glint of her crimson eyes makes me think she is not weak of heart either. She is intimidating to me, being so much better.

Her voice is nice, though, even if it makes me feel shy.

The mare understands, from what I gather from her words, and it makes my head pull out from my legs a bit, like a turtle's head poking out cautiously from its shell. I watch her carefully through eyes of green and red, looking at her face that was oddly determined. What was her goal that she was striving for as she spoke? Did it involve me? I think that is a bit egotistical to think, even if I am the only one next to her.

Her movement startles me, making my head dip back down until I realize she is laying on the earth. My head rises slowly from my legs, and my wings ruffle slightly. Those strange hairs sometimes move on their own, I've found. Her question catches me off guard, and I snap my head to look at her sharply, but I do not know how to answer her. My eyes linger on her contented face a moment longer before I slip back to watching the water. As I expected, the scene has already changed.

"I thought about exploring," I say, my voice quiet. "But I can't go far on my legs." I look back toward the white mare, my eyes wide and childlike for the first time in our conversation. They are surprisingly open, and I think this mare has started to win over my trust. I am still nervous, but I keep my eyes locked to hers, afraid that my will would shatter if they strayed. "Will my legs ever be like mother's?"

I resist my immediate urge to balk at her suggestion that mother was anything but the strong mare that I knew. Instead, my words lurch forth from my throat in a rather hasty and unpleasant manner, which I did not really expect or intend to happen. My voice is blunt, strong, indisputable, as it pours from my lips before I can stop it in my throat. "Mother is strong. There is no way she relied on anyone else." Especially you, my mind rings nastily in my head, thinking this white mare was just a conjurer of tricks trying to fool me. However, the harshness of my own words saddens me instantly, and my head droops again, even as this mare continues to speak.

I listen to her with a begrudging look on my face, yet the tilt of my ear belies my true feelings of interest. At the sound of my name, I perk my head back in her direction. I had not told her my name, so my faulty memory of her being at my birth had to be true. Mother had to know this mare well, to trust her as my guardian for the day. "Mother never told me she had a twin," my voice says with a touch of childish jealousy, which I find despicable. I quickly throw out that green monster in favor of a better me. I had been acting childishly for a few moments now, but I did not want this mare to leave, knowing that she is so close to me, my relative. She knew things about mother I did not. She knew things about the world I had just begun to see. She knew a lot of things, and I wanted to share her knowledge, at least some of it.

A shy smile forms on my lips, as I think back to the name my mother often says when telling stories. "Ophelia," I say, the name feels foreign on my lips, but it does ultimately ring a bell inside the chasm of my mind. "That is your name, right?" I glance at her with eyes of blood and earth, even as she nuzzles my shoulder gently. This mare is definitely my aunt. All at once, I feel terribly silly for questioning her from the beginning, but I am more relaxed in her overwhelming presence now. She was not a beautiful terror come to laugh at my inabilities, but a friendly face my mother loved, and so should I, when I think about it.

I am quite surprised by her offer to help me explore, and that translates rather quickly to my facial expression. However, I do not think exploring would be a good idea. Mother would ultimately worry about me, and it would cost Ophelia some of her energy and time. While I wanted to see the lands, it was possible I would see them with mother another day. Ophelia was also kind, but I did not want to exhaust that kindness so early in our newly accepted familial relationship. I gave her a serious look, one that likely belonged on the face of an aged stallion, before coming to lay down softly beside her, movements made awkward by the crooked limbs. I looked at her face directly, before my mouth finally caught up with my transient emotions. "I think I would like to learn about you instead, Ophelia," I say, my voice suddenly very strong. I was no longer afraid of my aunt, more curious, and I wanted her to take my curiosity seriously. "How are you?"

I immediately feel foolish after my stupid question. I had put forth all of this effort to have her take me seriously only to stumble on the first question of my impromptu interview.

Love, she had spoken of many types of love. I gathered the feeling that Ophelia knew the intricate workings of the world better than I, but I had no way of knowing the scope of the difference. She had said that the love a child and that of a sister is different, and that I can understand. This pretty mare is my aunt, and while I do not yet love her, I think that some day it would be possible. However, she would never be as close to me as my mother, or even my father, who I had only met once upon my birth and only half remember. He was large, this I recall. I also have a feel that he was very powerful, but that is not reflected in my own, crooked body.

A frown takes up my youthful face again, replacing it with another serious expression better suited for the elderly. I was confused by this new type of love that she introduces in a sidelong manner. For one, I did not understand how you could be judged as worthy or not to hold affection for another being. I also had no real concept of what this type of love was. For a young colt, romance would be the farthest thing from his mind, and that follows through in me. I look at her with soft eyes, my face taking on an encouraging expression. "I think everyone should have the right to love. This world is a mess that changes constantly, and only the company you keep can be constant," my words are pretty quiet, calm, and reflective, but there is still a bit of uncertainty in my voice that comes with my lack of experience. I had no idea if my concept of love applied here. "To not allow yourself to love would make this world very lonely, Ophelia. I think you should feel lucky to have a strong bond with another because that keeps you grounded."

I smile sheepishly at the large expanse of words that suddenly flood the air. I sound like a chatterbox, don't I? I glance down at the red earth before picking back up to listen to her words, which also flow out like a continuous stream. Her next statement makes sense to me, though I also disagree with her in this regard. I look up at her face, to her bicolored eyes that seem distant. Mother had looks like that sometimes, often when she was deep in thought. I wondered what Ophelia had seen in this world that was worth forgetting. I had experienced an opposite frustration - forgetting the things I wanted to keep in tact.

"I think forgetting is most troublesome," I throw out my thoughts on the matter quite swiftly. "Perhaps the things you'd most like to forget are important to know. Lessons." I nod to myself, thinking that it sounded fairly clever, for such a young colt. Ophelia would probably not take my words to heart, just shake them off as the words of a child. I hoped, though, that she would see me as worthy of considering a confidant. I wanted to share her problems, and quite suddenly realized that I held her dear already. It was a quick connection, one that formed without thinking, but it felt natural. Maybe this is why mother always spoke of her.