From the heartache of isolation, the trauma and confusion of the unfolding war still vivid in your mind, you begin to climb free - at least, distracted, for now. Your soft, glassy, golden gaze is wide and wondering as it searches the growing figure overhead. He is not much more than a shadow in the low-light, some parts of him fading into the blackening wilderness beyond; but as your untrained eyes strain to see, you do trace the presence of a wing by his left shoulder - only one - like your mother. She is a rare type you have learned through experience, special, none before now have shared her quality, and you are innocently intrigued. Your chin lifts quickly into the mild evening air as you drink hungrily the colt’s presence - he is far taller than you (laying nestled amid roots), seemingly filling the fathomless backdrop of darkness behind. A small smile fills your worn, white expression.

The tone, when he speaks again, is far more reassuring than it had been seconds before, bold though tender, and your downy black and white coat prickles wildly. A brisk nod of your petite, tapering skull follows his question - Zahra, is indeed your name - and a soft, bubbling giggle passes your lips. “Cute…” you sigh quietly, figuring that the word based on its context here, was quite pleasant enough. Your small, cupped black ears stand erect amid the stiff hedge of your mane and there is no denying your fascination. He asks you another question and you nod briskly again. Each word is readily absorbed by your ambitious mind, and you listen attentively even if you are yet to piece together such unbelievably structured sentences yourself. It is well that he answers for you and you sigh, silly grin still curled through your thin sooty lips. Briefly your pristine milk teeth flash.

To you, he seems to emanate maturity and intelligence, and though not that much greater in size, you feel he is quite adult enough to understand the predicament you have found yourself in. He turns suddenly though, severing the reassuring connection formed through eye-contact between you, and concerned that he might abandon you and the puppy you cradle, your minuter figure almost stumbles forward to stand. One knobbly knee lifts hastily above the pup and then the other; two perfectly neat hooves rest forward, prepared to rise without even a second’s notice. But your friend seems not ready to leave and after only a brief time turns back. His name is Zèklè - though you copy the latter more confidently. “Ze-o…” Soundlessly you roll the word around your mouth another couple of times, pressing your lips together, flapping your tongue; and then keenly you reveal, “Ze-ro!” You turn quickly when his eyes sink to the grassy-green gaze of the hatchling, concentration setting your brow to furrow. “Tha egg…” You explain carefully and nose through the fragments of shell by your left elbow.

Of course your know birds hatch from eggs, your mother explained that much, so you figure that the suggestion of this other creature hatching is fair enough. “Cute, bird…” you continue, nodding genuinely, returning your slim muzzle to fondle the flimsy ears upon its furry head. It is not really your intention to keep it, you cannot even yet fend for yourself after all. But her small mass offers fond company while your mother cannot be near. The thought though, reminds you unfortunately of the gruesome scene you have left behind, the voice of war seems to ring again through your ears. “Ze-ro,” you whisper, eyes touched by the sudden worry in your heart. “Bird is… scared, alone, tonight.” You are not sure what is keeping your mother, what the commotion was that spurred this mad dash to deep forest, but you miss her terribly; and your father, who you have not seen for more than a week. You tuck your front hooves again snug beneath your bony body and settle your chin grimly beside the still gazing puppy.