It is funny how a few days can make a difference; Sverre had turned from a bumbling foal with unsteady legs to a strong looking adventurous youth. At only a week old he had much to learn, and even more to develop, but he had already proved that his curiosity and energy were endless, his eyes sharp and his feet swift. When he was a few days old Therese begun her wandering again – she had stuck to the edges of the herd before, careful to keep within running distance but never quite joining them – sulking on the edges like a ghost, hollow eyed and hollow hearted, whilst her young son grew more and more eager to join his brothers and sisters.

No, not brothers and sisters, Therese thought as she watched them. The ones sired by Vercingetorix all had something of their father in them: the way they carried themselves, the shape of their eyes – one of them even had the same striking red in their coat and Therese is surprised to feel herself shiver with jealousy. Sverre was not so out of place that he would be suspected by an outsider, he has a darker shade of Therese’s golden pelt, splashes of dark up his leg. Garrick’s face, her eyes – although Therese doubts anyone else will see that.

She huffs, moving her lips across his cheek, and herding him away from the edge of the herd, off towards the forest – Sverre does not understand his mother’s wanderlust, he simply knows that when they go into the forest he can explore. Therese doesn’t let him wander too far, but as she pauses to watch the distance Sverre bounds ahead, his eyes directed towards the skies. The faint drumming of a woodpecker in a nearby tree catches his attention, and he draws to the base of the tree.

“What is it?” he asks, and Therese’s attention springs back to her son. “A bird,” she replies as she joins him, her eyes lifting to the feathered creature. “Yes,” Sverre returns with an impatient tone, and Therese hides her smile, “but it is eating the tree!” .

“Not eating, hunting.” Therese explains, tugging at her sons fluffy forelock, and directing him back onto their path. Sverre runs his nose along his mother’s shoulder as he walks. “Like a wolf?” he asks, his little brows furrowing slightly, “Sort of. The bird is looking for bugs under the skin of the tree,” she pauses her speech and slows her motion, her voice petering off as her eyes scan ahead.

Sverre can sense the sudden change in his mother, Therese attention has moved from them and towards the surrounding forest. After a moment of silence he touches his nose to his mother’s shoulder again, quizzical and curious as ever. Therese lowers her head to Sverre’s cheek and speaks quietly, “Do you smell that?” she asks, and Sverre tests the air carefully. The small is faint, but sharp and metallic, “Blood, Therese explains.

Blood and birth.

Therese’s first instinct is too run, but the smells that hide underneath the over-powering stench stop her. This mare does not smell like the rest of the herd – like the mare’s she has been watching for so long.

For any normal person this might be a sign to turn and run – why risk the life of their child for someone who is not of their family. But Therese feels as much of a connection towards the ladies of the Forest as she does the grass and the tree’s (which is that they serve a purpose – protection, nothing more. Like the tree’s are shelter and the grass is nourishment) and so she is more curious than fearful of this stranger.

With a stern command to Sverre, telling him to stay behind her no matter what, she leads the way through the trees and towards the smell. As they grew closer the soft sounds of whimpering got louder, and Therese take’s each step slowly. She could not smell danger, she could not hear danger, and she can only assume that this foal has only just been born.

The sight of the child laying next to her still mother makes Therese halt, and Sverre stops behind her, peering out from behind his mother’s golden legs. In the shadows of the afternoon Therese can just make out the foal sprawled on the floor, birthing fluids still wet on the fillies coat and the motionless black and white mare beside her seems to be making no effort to clean her.

Therese turns away, her eyes cast towards the setting sun peeking through the tree’s. It wouldn’t be long before the scent of new life and inevitable death reached the noses of the Forest’s predators. Or its protector. Her mind goes back to their last meeting and Therese shakes her head, her eyes glancing back towards the curious face of her son. Sverre has moved from behind her and hovers next to her side, and she see his sides quivering and knows it is a mixture of wanting and fear. He is scared because this place smells so strange, and driven to find out what is in front of him.

A wise woman might have run, left the child to the cruelty of starvation or the inevitable death at the teeth of wolves. But Therese doesn’t herd her golden son away, melt into the undergrowth like silver ghosts. Instead she moves towards the child, nose outstretched, soft whuffling sounds emitting from her lips, comforting and soothing. Sverre shifts about next to her, his little ears flicking back and forth before deciding that he is more curious about the living filly than her dead mother, although for now he keeps his distance, and sticks like glue to his mother’s back legs.

Therese pauses just in front of the child, her nose still stretched outwards, although she does not touch the girl yet. It is strange how sudden the urge to clean the girl is, but Therese pushes it away along with the slow creeping feeling of urgency.