For someone so enthusiastic to disturb a complete stranger, Briar was awfully skittish towards him. When he moved, she backed quickly away, jerking her head up and out. Her breath came in short pants, thin clouds of steam fading in the chilled air nearly as soon as she made them. She was worried he might, in a last surge of adrenaline, lunge towards her, but as she stood out of striking range and watched him struggle to his hooves she realized he was too frail even for that. He was so small, so fragile... The colt seemed about a year or so old, and she remembered her son at that age, gold and bright and strong as the sun. It was such a contrast to the half-frozen wraith before her.
The dark mare watched him for a second, and once she'd determined he wouldn't attack her, she moved to close the space between them - but then there was a soft touch on her shoulder, and she squealed in surprise, wheeling around to come face-to-face with another mare. Immediately her ears pressed against her head. Her gaze flicked briefly over the other's shimmering form, listening as the stranger scolded the wounded colt as if it was his fault he'd come so close to death. Briar grew more and more irritated with every word that came from the mare's mouth. How could she punish the boy for something he may have had no control over? She was no stranger to life's hardships, and she knew all too well that sometimes, bad things just happened. Fate wasn't picky about who it targeted, but it was merciless.
She stood and stared at the ground as the mare spoke to her, ears hearing but not listening, mind entrenched in memories of the sadness and grief she'd only barely escaped. At the mention of "her" stallion, Briar snorted, shaking her head. "He's not my stallion," she corrected the stranger, her voice finding a strength it hadn't had in months. "He's just a boy." Lost. Alone in this world. Like her.
The palomino moved towards the colt, and cold adrenaline grabbed hold of Briar. She found herself moving, putting her body inbetween the mare and the boy. A sharp squeal sounded from her throat, a strident warning, and she pawed at the ground, a silent threat to kick if the mare came closer. "He said he didn't feel like walking," she said. Her voice was as chilly as the snow at her hooves, but her eyes glittered with a feverish light. Briar glanced back at the colt, just briefly. "I will stay," she murmured, "until morning." She would stay for a whole damned season if she had to. She'd insisted he was not hers, but now she knew that he was, and he had been since she'd found him and forced him into consciousness. His life was her responsibility. It mattered not who she was. In a season or two, she would be but dust upon the wind.
Perhaps this knowledge of her vulnerability was what gave her the courage to stand up to this bossy mare. It was easy to be brave when faced with her own mortality. Briar stepped back, closer to the trembling colt, and tucked her head into her chest. "You have no idea what he needs," she chastised. "This is none of your concern." He was a half-dead underling and she was a ghost. This stranger, so living, so whole, was miles ahead of them. The living had no place meddling in the affairs of the dead and the dying. They didn't - couldn't - understand.
In the distance, a raptor's cry echoed. She paid it little mind.
Briar turned away from the mare, standing against the brunt of the wind so that the colt might feel less of it. "Leave us," she mumbled. Just leave us all alone. Why was that concept so hard to grasp?
