One had come, one whose coat made him think of trees in the winter, kissed by snow. She had approached him without aggression, and spoken softly, with something in her voice, in her eyes that had made him want to hide, and yet, at the same time, he felt seen, he felt real, and this made his heart tremble as if with a strange and fragile kind of yearning. He wouldn’t be forgotten if he shared his story, not entirely. If he were to give her his words, then perhaps he’d still exist in her memory, in tiny broken pieces, even after he departed from this place.

He feared death, and while he didn’t think the monsters would take him just yet (for they so enjoyed haunting his waking hours, stealing his sleep from him, and tormenting him with memories that were fading all too quickly), he was no fighter, and he was weak, a coward. Death, when it came for him, would take him quickly. But, what he feared more, was dying without leaving anyting behind. It would be as if he had never existed. Had never sought shelter in the desert during the hot summer months. Had never breathed this air, or swam these seas, or walked this land. It would be as if he had never come here, never laid eye on the mighty Peak that would always steal his breath, and make his heart jump inside his empty chest.

If he had never existed to these Isles, than neither had his brother, nor his stars, nor his sun. And so, he had to be remembered, because they were a part of his story, and he didn’t know any other way that he could keep them all alive.

She was waiting for an answer, he realised, and he stared, his lone ear flicking back in uncertainty. He couldn’t find his voice, couldn’t answer her. The words were right there, on the tip of his tongue! Lost? He wasn’t lost. This was like a home to him, even though it wasn’t meant to be. He opened his mouth, hoping that the answer would fall out, but it did not.

“You pathetic creature,” purred a voice in his ear. It was the Wolf – the unmasked cruelty in his voice gave him away. The hatred, and the disgust. “What are you doing? No-one wants you, specially not here.”

And Balthazar was a fool, because he believed those phantom words. He turned and fled.

Something about the mare who had approached made him turn and look back.

But he didn’t stop.

-------

Months had passed, and it was winter now. Balthazar had survived, drifting around alone, lingering in spaces that belonged to no-one, that were as neglected as he himself was. He had spoken to no-one, except himself, and if any had pitied him and tried to approach, he had retreated, disappearing like a black ghost into shadows and mist, his dull silver mane and tail flicking as he went. No one had persisted in following, except a young stallion, whose white blanketed rump had reminded him keenly, doggedly of someone else. He had lost the boy, secreted himself in the cave behind one of the lesser known waterfalls.

As he had stood shivering, skin soaked with the cold, cold water, mane and tail hanging limp and dripping puddles on the floor of the dark, dank little cave, he thought back to the mare from the mountain. He’d thought a lot about her, ever since the day he had fled from her. About her words, and the look in her eyes as she’d seen him, and her coat, dark and bright all at once. And he thought about the answer she was still waiting for, somewhere up her mountain. He wondered if she remembered him, looked for him, waited for him to show his sad and ruined face again. He wondered if she wondered about him. And he came up with so many answers to her stumbled question. Most answers, he let the cold winds carry away. Some he tossed aside, thinking them altogether too dull, or callous, or ugly to hold on to. And a few, a small few, he kept inside, and nurtured, hoping that they’d survive the winter.

There came a day when the words would no longer stay inside, all humble and silent. They were ready, and he was ready. To go back to the Peak and find her. So he could pass them along. So he could see her again, and answer her question.

And maybe, just maybe be asked another.

The trek was hard on him physically, for his body was still weak. His mind, however, was stronger now, with every step he took, and his heart was determined. He found the place she had come to him easily, for he had looked back and had seen her standing here, and this memory had remained with him, clear and bright amidst the myriad of old and tired ones. And here he hovered, watching for her, and waiting. Whenever a stranger approach, he backed away, disappearing like he had so often these past months, so that some even spoke of him as if he were naught but a lost waif, there-and-gone with the slightest breath of icy winter wind.

And then she appeared. Had one of the other mountain mares mentioned him, so that she recognised his description and had come looking? Was it by chance, or fate, that she and he were about to cross paths once more? Or had she been looking, watching and waiting for him, just as he had wondered?

He kicked off and moved to meet her, desperation giving him speed. His ear was hidden in the dirty knots of his mane, and he feared that another of the herd would think he was an enemy and move to intercept him, chase him off, and prevent him from giving her an answer to her old, patient question. He was no enemy. He could never be an enemy to the place, of those that belonged to it. No, never that.

He stumbled to a stop in front of her, his functional eye fearful (and yet, hopeful, and desperate). “I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” he mumbled softly, glancing at her, and then away to the mountainside and towards the peak above. He was wrong, he realised, in his comparison. “Please forgive me.” She didn’t speak to him of a winter tree, dormant, laden with snow. She was like the mountain itself, the brown of the earth that he pawed at with a chipped hoof - churning up only a little for it was unyielding. Dark, like the earth of the mountain, and bright, bright like its unreachable, snow-capped summit.

Again, he seized up, and tensed, intending to flee again – for what could he say to her, she who was like the very mountain that he loved. But, even as his heart raced, and he struggled with his darkness and turmoil, his eye was drawn to her face, and he forced himself to stay. He would bolt when she had her answer, because he couldn’t leave her empty-handed again.

“I-I,” he stuttered, trying to make sense of the words that had led him back to this place. “I… Am not lost,” he managed, after drawing in several shallow breaths. “I came here… Before. When I was younger. The monster killed him, but spared me, and I came here to die, because I was so small, and scared, and this place was beautiful, so I wanted it to be the last thing I saw.” The words came easily, all of a sudden, and flowed out of him like a river of sorrow and light. “But I didn’t die. She looked after me, and I left. But I came back, I always came back when I was scared, because I knew I would always be safe here, with her.” For the first time, he met her gaze and held it. “I know where I am,” he said. “I am not lost.” And he broke it, turning his head away quickly. Because these last words, they were only a half-truth. “No.”

He thought he would have left by now, but still he stood before her, the mare that was the mountain. And he wondered why he didn’t leave. Maybe he waited to hear her voice again, but no, that wasn’t it. He remained, because he still had words to give her. Her question was only half answered.

“And yes,” he whispered brokenly, turning away entirely, for he despaired, and couldn’t look at her for fear that she might not be there. His throat burned, and an immense loneliness pressed down on him, a sorrow almost too heavy to bear nearly suffocated him. “I have never been more lost in my life,” he choked on the words, and trembled at the clarity of them, at the truth of them. “Not even when I came here to die before I had even lived.” He fought to draw breath. “There was always someone I could turn to,” he said huskily, his thoat raw, and still burning. “Even though I know now they were enemies of mine, only out to hurt me, use me.” His head dropped, and a sob rose in his chest. “But they’re gone, gone, all of them,” his voice hitched, catching on his bruised and battered words. “Yes, yes,” he forced the words out, as if making it impossible for himself to deny it any longer.

He remained with his back to her, as if he believed himself unworthy to face her, or the mountain peak above and beyond her. “I am,” the words were wearied and weighed down, as sad and weak as he himself was. As pitiful as they sounded, they perfectly summed up his hard and lonely life. It was far emptier than it had once been, void of both allies and enemies, and desperate enough for the latter even. It was a quiet and cold existence, his was, and his spirit was not as resilient as it had once been. All he could think about as he stood on the mountainside shivering, was how bleak the landscape was.

His future was shaping up to be the same.

That thought gave him a little comfort, as did anything remotely connected to this mountain that he loved. He would come back in the spring maybe, when the winter thaw had passed. And he’d stand here, and maybe she would be standing there behind him. And he could pretend for a moment that his future cold be like the spring, and he could smile, and hope for a few moments.

And maybe find the words to ask the mare that was the mountain a question, so that he could carry the seeds of her voice, and fragments of her story with him, and preserve them alive. Maybe he’d bury them here on the side of their mountain, so that long after they’d both gone – onto whatever other life – some part of her would still live on here, and some part of him would remain to protect her, for he knew that he could never protect her now, as he was. Knew it was likely his protection wouldn’t be wanted. Knew it was likely it was unneeded, and unnecessary. Knew for certain that he longed for something like that, he needed to matter, to be important and essential in some little way, like he had once a long time ago.

Maybe he could fill the rest of his days by writing her story, for his was too tragic a tale for him to bear. And maybe, instead of what had had lost, he could think of her, and wonder about the one who had come down one dark day, and laid eyes on him, and asked a question. Yes, he’d think of her.

“Who are you?” he asked, his words no longer like the shards of a damaged soul. They carried a weight that made it clear that the answer was very important to him, in a way that was profound. He didn’t know if he’d ever come to know why they were so, all he knew was that they were. She had somehow come to be of great significance to him, and a figure of incomparable symbolism . He turned for the first time, and waited for his answer. He met her gaze, and waited for a name.

The name of the mare that was the mountain