Kunžak stood stooped on the green knoll, the sun warm on his back and the weight of many days of sleep deprivation pulling at his eyelids. His posture, normally as alert and upright as a pillar, sank like a gnarled old oak in water-logged soil. Nearby, Božena rested beneath the shade of a copse of trees that were lush with new spring growth, her growing belly rising and falling as rhythmically as the swell of the ocean. While Kune would have liked nothing more than to join her, he remained a quiet sentinel, straining against the pull of sleep to watch for the approach of any who would disturb her rest. While her responsibilities as Prime Minister never relented, Kune did his best to ensure that she was not overworked, especially this late in her term. If there was an important issue, he would wake her; if it could wait, he would turn the approacher away with his still-limited knowledge of the island tongue.

He jerked to attention at the sound of his name, his ears momentarily twisting back as the youthful call shattered the stillness of the afternoon. His expression softened when he saw that it was only Kuráž, however, and he offered the boy a weary smile before gently bumping his muzzle against Kuráž's. Kune no longer had to bow quite so low to do so; Kuráž was mostly grown into his legs, and though he would likely never rival Kune or Božena in stature, he was visibly more a young stallion than a child now. Grey flecked through his pelt like fallen snow, a sign of the Dotkl Jednoho he would become, and seemed to spread more every day. Looking at him brought Kune the same pride as if Kuráž was his own son.

Yet he hesitated at the boy's question. His dark eyes briefly slid past the colt to check on Božena; thankfully she had not been disturbed, but if Kune left her side, anyone might interrupt her rest.

He inhaled deeply, letting his thoughts collect like raindrops and then releasing them with the gentle deluge of his breath. "I suppose," he finally relented, the coarse tones of their mother tongue falling haltingly from his lips. He spoke softly, and indicated that Kuráž should follow suit as he led the boy away from the sunny hill on which Božena rested. His steps were slow and his path aimless at first, while his weary mind wandered, one dark ear turned to half-listen to Kuráž's chatter.

"No, everything's fine," he said in response to the boy's question, but it was a few moments before he said anything more. He pressed his lips together as the ground rose beneath his hooves; loose stones scattered in his wake, the brittle sound grounding his flighty thoughts. He paused, looking up the path ahead, and saw a large shelf of scree - loose stones that had collected at the base of a collapsed cliff - pouring treacherously across the ground. Kune turned to take Kuráž a different route. After a few moments, however, he realized he could not hear Kuráž's hoof steps behind him, and he stopped to see what held the boy up. Kuráž wore a thoughtful expression, his eyes faraway, and concern passed briefly across Kune's face.

There is much I do not understand, Kune. All I have are the few stories my mother told me, and that’s no longer enough for me.

A wrinkle formed on Kune's brow, but he remained quiet, sensing that Kuráž had more to say.

I feel like I am not enough. Božena and for you, yes, but… Why is it that I am so different, that I cannot understand? My mouth rejects the Language of the Islands, but if I cannot gain mastery of my own failings, how am I to feel like I truly belong here?

At this, Kune bridged the short gap between them. There was a gleam in his eyes - something soft, but stern - and he bumped his nose against the boy's as if to say hey, look at me. While he did not fully understand the context or reasons behind what Kuráž expressed, he recognized in Kuráž the same sense of loss and being lost, physically and emotionally, that had plagued him for years. Božena carried it too; all three of them would carry it the rest of their lives. It was unavoidable, when one had been through what they had. It was more than trauma. It was displacement: feeling as though you lived in a world that was not built for you, where no one cared about the losses you had incurred, or what you had to do to simply stay afloat in a land of strangers.

He let out a heavy huff of breath. "You feel different, because you are different. You, me, Božena - we are strangers in a strange land, and we have lost much. But that does not mean you need to feel that way forever. You have us. And we are creating something new together."

Kune rested his mouth briefly on the boy's brow and let his gaze follow the jagged line the mountains cut against the sky. He pulled away to look Kuráž in the face. "Did I ever tell you about the Dotkl of my homeland?"