Winter had passed like a long night dreaming. Grey clouds kept the forest and its floor covered in a thick mantle of snow and ice. Winter winds, caught only a little by the naked bramble, still swept a chill into Indian Hemp's bones. It was as if all life slept, put on hold by the cruelty of winter.

Horses huddled in clumps, but Indian Hemp didn't join them. He accepted Vercingetorix's invitation to come nearer to the rest of the herd, and he did come nearer, but he only wandered close in his hopeless search for food. He did not share in their warmth or get friendly with any mares that were not his own. In fact, he didn't get friendly with his own mares. It seems they all had their own agendas.

But like all long winters, the spring always comes to warm the misery from Indian Hemp's hot-blooded self. As swiftly as the cold set in, the freezing temperatures vanish, melting the snow and coaxing a flourish of new, green growth from the forest around them. Indian Hemp's winter coat is shedding in patches. He's been rubbing on trees as he passes to relieve the itching. From beneath the shag, a sleeker look appears, as well as some ribs, wanting for spring vegetation to fill the gaps between them.

Today is a particularly warm day, so Indian Hemp finds himself in good spirits. The spotted stallion trots a wavering course through the trees and grabs mouthfuls of greenery as he goes. He soon finds the banks of the forest's life-giving stream. He halts at the water's edge, and is lowering his head to drink when he thinks he hears a cry. Indian Hemp's lips barely brush the surface when he picks up his head again. His ears turn, unsure of what he's just heard. First thoughts stray to a predator, but the squeak that follows is undeniably equine.

Curious, the stallion leaps across the narrow width of the stream and disappears into the brush on the opposite bank. He doesn't have to search long before the offensive odor of sweat and blood assault his nostrils. His stomach turns and some instinct tells him to leave, but Indian Hemp is drawn by his unsatisfied curiosity. What he finds in the next thicket, is a shock.

Chianti lays flat out. If it weren't for the shallow rise and fall of her side, Indian Hemp would think she was dead. At her side, lies a precious bundle of bay fur. Indian Hemp forgets to be overjoyed. He is swiftly at his first mare's side. His concerned gaze searches her face. "Chianti?", he calls, and nudges at her cheek.