Machiavellian shadows crawl hungrily, progressively, between slivers of strolling sunlight, and green needle-leaves therein whisper, ‘hiss’, wildly to one another while mild wind tempts away their diffidence; the stallion watches this from the half-rotten floor, listening, learning. His chin is circling slowly, deliberately, with each sense high on alert. Her quailing voice sings forth, so mild and delicate, and almond eyes dance back beneath the swivel of furred ears quickly, to greet it. She is a moth lost in the day, scattered and floundering, but far more beautiful; a butterfly, drowned in the vast hopelessness of night. Though, cradled within the security of his gaze, he wants to assure her – as beautiful as the manzanita after fire, she will overcome this. He, the sunlight, will brighten the way.

He is a Warrior, guardian, whatever the peril.

‘Very bad’, the dove elucidates – he expects as much. With every brief exchange, the ambience, the whole forest surrounding, seems to dull, quieten; it dims, even like the calm before a storm. It is impossible for him to understand the merciless ‘horror’ that looms in the wings of her mind; the reaper incarnate. In the past he has fought colts, maimed foxes and chased deer; but never has he faced anything near the wrath of true danger. Death stalks his charge, her thoughts and dreams, with jagged, salivating jaws. Affluence resonates through him. They are like fire and ice… The crystalline film of hope in her eyes cracks suddenly and his heart lurches forward desperately; it thunders, thrums a melody of panic against his bruised self-worth.

He snorts softly as bountiful blonde tendrils smother each hock.

Each sentence seems as broken as her soul (he thinks); he seizes those few words given voraciously, untiringly, and hangs still for more like a dog craves bone – the last mews almost pitifully and giant wings draw forward as the compassion in him flares. Why should he care? He wonders, and thinks; memories stir and a wall of gleaming eyes rises about him, all around. He is shivering, nervous and stunned by the glare of the cheer – their conviction is too heavy for his unworthy shoulders to bear. He sways dizzily in place, unable to squeeze into the ill-matched shape of this calling.

His journey rides on the back of their faith, even now - of hers’.

Though he each studies her well and ponders his path forward, there is no reason (that he can find), which might mean her exclusion. He needs her; his charge is withered like a rose without light – she needs him. Breath pumps stiffly as he steps forward again. Wordlessly he pushes at the barrier between them, the tension of air, and as warm, stubbly lips risk even nearer, he smiles. Was there anything left of her to lose? There is barely more of her than shell, or so is the first impression he’d taken; but the longer they dwell together in the afternoon warmth, snippets betray more of the life that was cowering within. He knows the answer already (perhaps), though wants her to see… she won't break.