It was hard to sleep in the Forest.

Every shadow, every snapped twig set my nerves ablaze and my ears flipping toward the source of the noise as I peered into the darkness around me. I had killed him, and what’s more, I knew I had killed him, and yet still I did not trust that the black stallion was dead. When the sun shone, I was less prone to startle and stare menacingly into the trees, but night had fallen as it always did and I could feel my skin trembling from the adrenaline that pulsed through me.

It had only been a couple of days since I had brought the black mare here, and we had not moved from our initial stopping point. I was not ready to confront the rest of my home and revisit places that were familiar to me, even if the landscape had changed in the many years I’d been away. With a low snort I glanced over the black mare’s back and surveyed the woods. Something had to change, and soon: I felt exhaustion creeping up on me with each new dawn. I could not remain on high-alert for much longer. Currently I stood right next to the black blanketed mare, keeping myself close to it to ensure I could defend it should something try to take it away.

As I stared at the trees, a white face emerged followed by the rest of the horse. I pinned my ears and took a step forward, prepared to drive off the intruder if it happened to be male. It did not exhibit any signs of aggression —it whickered and then stared at me— but I did not trust it. Stiff-legged and neck arched, I moved closer, prepared to lash out with hoof and tooth. The horse was speckled all over except for its face, and I became aware all at once of its femaleness when I was only a foot or so away. I raised my muzzle and curled my lip back to take in its Scent. Flicking an ear back to check on the activity of the black mare, I tucked my chin in close to my chest and moved behind the spotted mare to herd it further into the clearing.

I would keep this one, too.