she's in my veins again
When Cinnamon had been a colt, he had gotten into trouble too many times to recall. He remembered vividly the feeling of knowing you had done something stupid before your dam even found out, and talking up the crimes in your head to the point of paranoia. He expected the young colt in front of him may be feeling something similar. He knew he was in trouble, and he expected hostility from everyone.
At least now he seemed to be calming down. His breathing steadied, and Cinnamon could see him shivering slightly in the bitter breeze. Cinn’s own heartbeat was slowing down as well, the adrenaline that had rushed through his veins a few seconds ago now flushing out, leaving him feeling a little bit tired, and a little bit cold. He shivered as well, but at least he wasn’t wet, and he had much more body fat than the colt did. Once the crash from adrenaline wore off as well, Cinnamon would warm up again.
The stallion watched the young horse take a few tentative steps toward him. Now he just looked defeated, though anxiety still showed itself in the way he looked behind him at the path leading toward what Cinnamon assumed was the sea.
“It’s no big deal,” he said gently in response to the colt’s apology. “What are you in such a rush for, anyway?” he asked, though he knew almost positively that the boy was lost and looking for someone, either a parent or a protector or the friend that had convinced him to run off while the herd was not looking. That last one was familiar to Cinnamon, and he almost smiled remembering how many times his half-brothers had dragged him off on some stupid goose chase. He had been the instigator only once, and had been thoroughly yelled at for his efforts by his dam, shutting down any inspiration to go on such an adventure a second time.
“My name is Cinnamon,” the older stallion said, hoping to put the colt more at ease. He didn’t want him to shy away from his question, thinking he’d be punished; Cinn wondered if there was a very stressed dam out there somewhere who would like to do the punishing. Either way, punishing was not Cinnamon’s job, nor was it in his nature. “You can call me Cinn if you want. Most people do.” Well, that wasn’t true. Nobody had called him Cinn since his old herd, and they were gone. Nobody on this island knew his name yet at all. “Actually,” he added, “you’re the only one who would possibly call me Cinn. Don’t tell anyone, but you’re the first person to talk to me on this island. I have zero friends here.” He smiled down at the young stallion, who was still shivering mightily.
Cinnamon himself had never had children, and as an adult had never really interacted with younger horses, so he was at a bit of a loss for what to do with the shivering, hungry colt in front of him, but he knew he couldn’t do nothing. He took an uncertain step forward, offering his red-dappled side for the boy to lean on and share some of his body heat. He was no longer shaky and cold from the adrenaline leaving his system, so his fur radiated healthy warmth. “I don’t know how much I can help ya if you’re lost,” he said. “I’m still new to this area. I think I have about an hour’s more experience than you. But I won’t chase you away, and I’ll come help ya look around if you want.”
