The raid, when it happened, had been surprising as the bite of a horsefly— and just as tolerable. Impa had responded to the striking hooves and greedy teeth of the stallion with a series of firm kicks, shifting her weight forward to deliver as much power behind each backward thrust of her hind hooves as her body would allow. She was no doe-eyed filly prone to skitter fearfully before the path of a marauder, and whether her kicks were successful or not Impa had turned in place, steadfast, as she tracked the movement of the stallion by sound and made as if to confront him head-on. It was Wasp's arrival which ended the standoff (if it could be called such a thing, with Impa barely able to distinguish the end of her nose, much less another horse, in the gathering dusk) and, disoriented and disinclined to linger when she felt she would be more of a hindrance than a help to the Prime Minister, Impa turned away from the sparring horses and trotted off. If the stranger she had first addressed had hung around, she was unaware of it, but Impa did not worry for her. Any Peak mare was more than capable of fending for herself.

It is this thought which plagues her in the days following.

Her forearms ache from supporting her weight, and the muscles along her loins and thighs feel strained. For several days she has walked with a limp and a keen awareness of every creak of every joint as she wanders, slowly and without apparent aim, through the lowlands of her home. This afternoon she has paused in a field open to the wind and the sun, left hind cocked and eyes closed as she dozes in the light of the sun. It is not as if Impa did not know she was old —her failing vision has been proof enough of that— but it is something else entirely to be confronted with the fact that, should need become dire, she might not be able to effectively defend the Peak.

She might not be able to defend herself. Certainly, she can still buck and kick (even if it does make her ache for days) but what use is that if she struggles to aim, or if her energy inevitably lags? She is lucky Wasp was so near, and while she appreciates the quick response of Macabre's daughter to her duties, Impa is only a horse. It galls her, immensely, to have had to be rescued.

Impa then must consider: if she is not an asset, she must be a burden. One who must be kept watch over and guarded, protected like a foal but in a way that feels shameful for she is an adult, has been for many years, and has never before felt she might not be able to take care of herself. It is embarrassing to have had someone else come to her defense, and Impa snorts, stamping a loose hoof against the ever-hardening earth as winter comes crawling closer. What happens when the snows come and she is alone with no clear path to allow another to come racing to her aid, save for the wolves with lolling tongues and splayed toes who run with ease over the packed drifts to drain her failing body and send her slipping into the dark?

What then for the aged mare with no family beyond the bones littering this stone?