NYMERIA
7; russian heavy draft x orlov trotter; dapple grey; 16hh; shiva
She has been here for the better part of a season now, in this strange dying land where the leaves are colorful and beautiful, yet brittle like bones. And she has put on weight: not because of the life stirring in her gut (it's too early for that), but because the food here is so much more bountiful and nutritious than it had been in the snow lands. The weight she had dropped while carrying and nursing her twin foals has returned twofold, filling out her strong dappled body and bringing out the draft blood within her.
It makes no sense to her. If the land is dying, why is she flourishing? Why is the herd flourishing? Why are there so many, and why do they all appear so well-fed? She guesses that many of them are pregnant with the stallion's seed, from the subtle changes in their bodily perfumes, yet the pounds of flesh on their bodies have not dropped off to nourish the growing fetuses within them. They remain fat and supple, healthy creatures that look as though they've never known a hard day in their lives.
Her daughters in particular have strengthened since they came here, shooting up as though they had collectively inherited the soul of a weed. She will be able to wean them sooner than she had thought, and then at last she can give them their names. Soon. The thought makes her smile secretively. Already she knows what she will call them; she has had almost six months to ponder the possibilities, after all, despite it being bad luck to do so. And, what's more, it has been weeks with no sign of the spotted stallion coming to reclaim them: yet another blessing. She has tried not to think about Rusalka or the other mares, who she misses almost fiercely despite having hardly known them, or the barren familiarity of the land she had known for years. In this place of dying leaves, she has tried instead to focus on the good.
And in an attempt to focus on the good, she had allowed the red stallion to mount her. It was as if the promise of another child, a child by another stallion (the fourth in her life), was to be the cement of her new life. Her daughters would know a sibling, and they would have a new family, one that would hopefully overshadow the strained silent relations of the Arch. At least, that was what she had told herself. In truth, the large part of her decision to invite the pressure of Vercingetorix's gut onto her rump had been an entirely biological one. Oh, how she fancied him. It didn't hurt that he had not shown any interest at all in killing her daughters.
With the heat of hormones having drifted away like a leaf on the wind, Nymeria had begun to focus on other things: namely, the herd. She had watched them from the shadows of her favorite thicket most days, never allowing her children to venture too near them while she assessed their behavior, as if they were a field project to be studied. The herd, despite being large, was always comparatively quiet. This was something she liked, in her strange way. Eventually, she had decided they were trustworthy. Perhaps not name-giving trustworthy, but the fact they seemed to lack a strong female leader was the deciding factor for her. That day, she knew she wanted to be a part of them, to help and direct them if she could. And, purely by chance, the leggy chestnut was to be the first recipient of her advances.
Today she has allowed her girls a looser leash, so they are a short distance away, playing in the fallen leaves, utterly disinterested in their mother's activities. She sees the mare before the mare sees her. They are of a height and build, though the red mare is perhaps somewhat less well-built. Her skin is supple and her coat is glowing with youth; Nymeria tests the air with her nostrils but cannot tell whether the girl is still in heat or not, which might have given her an idea of whether she too carries Vercingetorix's child. She remembers that this female is one she has seen little of, which makes her wonder if she, too, is new. Finally, she begins moving through the trees toward her, whickering gently as soon as she breaks free of the trees into the quiet little thicket. Her neck hangs at a casual angle, and her brown eyes are soft with curiosity.
"I am Nymeria. Who are you?" Her voice is rough and faintly accented. She mentally chides herself for forgetting to withhold her name, but it is too late now to take it back.
|