She had watched him swim away, a dusky brown head bobbing across a sea of blue waves, disappearing a few times behind the rough surface, only to reappear just as determined as before. She called, she cried, a soft cooing sound aiming to bring him back, but Sverre paid no heed. He was determined and pig headed, and Therese knew that if she could not tempt him back right away then he would not be coming back at all. So she called, and cried, each time more and more frantic, until she was dancing back and forth across the beachm hooves churning up the surf into a muddy brown froth rather than the pristine white. That is how Vercingetorix found her, comforted her, sent her panic away with soft words and gentle sounds of encouragement, touching his nose to her neck and her face until she had calmed entirely.

That was how it happened, perhaps spurred on by the season, by the fact she is heavy in heat and untouched by her stallion, the loss of her son and the sudden iminent need to replace him with something else. But it was not like Garrick, Vercingetorix was gentle and encouraging, and afterwards they had stood side by side, her head resting on his back as he groomed her neck, the sea breeze tangling their manes together, soft silver with reddish bronze.

Therese stilled missed Sverre, but the prospect of another foal, Vercingetorix's foal, filled her with a new joy, and this joy knew no bounds. Maybe that was why she sought them out - spurred on by her growing baby and intent on creating safety in the herd she searches for them: Vercingetorix's other mares. She had not seen Fleete since the death of her daughter and birth of her granddaughter, and Therese could only asusme that the golden mare was no longer around. Brynja was, Therese had seen her more recently - but the others, the unknown's, they were no more than dried up smells, scent tracks that winded through the forest but never came to an end. So Therese calls for them, soft and loud, echoing through the tree's.

She doesn't know if any of them will answer, if any of them will come, and so she lowers her head to the ground to pick at the grass, chewing thoughtfully as she waits.