Zahra, Ilham and Hanna

It was pride that turned angels into devils

The feat of movement - which obviously the foal had always quite for granted - became quickly an engrossing source of entertainment. It all started with his tail and her glittery, golden eyes switched quickly to find its first measured motion through the silvery slick of water; a brilliantly long snake whose purpose was evidently more convenient than beauty (she admired its slow, deliberate grace intently). A rather silly smile had crossed Zahra’s features, though the babe was little interested in her own appearance, vanity - like that which compelled Camon to gaze longingly at his own reflection in the water for what seemed like hours on end.

To her amazement, a trinket almost like those carried beneath her over-sized collar (and others less attractive which she had given to her brother before the journey west), was lifted from it’s wet bed. The value of such items, amulets,was quite unknown to the gangly foal, though her father on one or two occasions had explained the curious powers resting within. She had never been short in her possession of stuff.

Even as Zahra balanced on the loamy embankment beneath the thick web of foliage, her growing shoulders bore the weight of the Gallant’s ill-fitted collar; her mane above it held two clinking gold feathers. Ilham had woven the broken-heart charm she had acquired to rest like it had its first owner, braided into the top of her short, bushy tail, and upon a long platted string of the same fine, strong silk, dangled any number of stunning feathers about the middle of her young neck - they danced wildly in the harrying gale.

The scales of scattering, schooling fish gleamed as sunlight struck them and the filly watched on, waiting while the egg was urged well clear of the lake’s lapping lip. There was no doubting the wounded stallion’s concern, his devotion to the ‘panion which was still more or less Zahra’s primary concern, but she was thoroughly enthralled as he moved at last to exit the bath. As his stained teeth clenched together and his breath groaned though heaving nostrils, she encourage him softly, “Yeah, like that…” On the shoreline she slithered out of his path with baited breath and molars grinding in sympathy - it became quickly apparent that his was terribly beaten. From somewhere deep down in the reservoir of her blocked experiences, the young pegasus was able to recognise the agony ripe throughout his features. Nervously she cast a glance back to find Bird cowering by a tree, and then around them to make certain the spar wasn’t nearby. What even does a spar look like though?

No sooner was her wounded company standing awkwardly upon three legs, than he collapsed again - like gravity’s shackle was tight around his waist. “Oh!” Zahra bleated helplessly as he crashed, and she danced across petite round hooves, hesitating, unsure just what to do with herself. The stallion with the soggy horn moaned pitifully, peeling his eyes from the sitting orb to find her worried, anxious expression, and eyes trained upon him - they diverted promptly, seeking their escape in the task now left to her care. Without time to deliberate, she dipped towards his leg passing her eyes first across his gaping wound and then by her own much more humble bleed. It had been the golden liquid oozing which had cured in the past, sealed a sore leaving nothing but hairless golden scarring, and cautiously and curiously she folded her knees up upon his hip.

Awkward… her mind muttered as she tried to angle her puny fetlock across his injury.

However would she have done this if the mangrove had not so wickedly snatched her!

The foal was determined nonetheless to help the sorry soul beneath her small clambering mass, but also too, to reaffirm the queer ability she had not called upon again, for many, many months.

Straddling his clumsily like a playing kitten might her mother, Zahra at last manipulate her own blood to blend with his. She was unsure how much was required and in a brazen effort sank her blunt pearly whites into the taught skin just above her own injury - the liquid spewed as the nerves surrounding sang their bitter protest (needless to say her resolve was far weaker than his, and she released her grip promptly. “Ow…” the grimaced wearily. It was at that point that she slid from his bulging body, sleek hair glaring easily across his dense, wet winter-pelt, and down into the mud beside him. Quickly she gathered herself to stand.

The filly sauntered back to see if anything had happened - to find out if he were broken still. She arrived as the last section of golden scab was dissolving (the healing process was much the same, though accelerated, incredibly), and left in its wake was a scar that shone like a soft kiss from the sun. “Hey, it worked!” she sang out delightedly, not for a second considering the fact that he had lived through the event still more intimately, “Tisn’t any more blood!”