bastian

The long night of Tinuvel's winter had broken, leaving only scattered drifts of snow in its wake like white shadows. Celebrating the defeat of darkness and desolation, the sun lingered longer in the sky each day, spreading warmth across the subarctic landscape of the Inlet. New life was everywhere - in the first shoots of grass that had been coaxed from the cold ground, and the buds blossoming at each branch's tip. It was in cradles built of feathers and twigs and bits of hair that the birds guarded, and the shrill song of their scoldings when the earthbound creatures ventured too close.

Even the numbers of the Inlet's herd increased, though the spring could not return those who had been taken from them. The dark mare, Sigrun, had disappeared first - stolen away in the night by a stallion with strange yellow eyes. Next to leave the Inlet had been Shiraz, who had gone someplace that Bastian's dam had called Death - the bay colt wondered whether Shiraz's mother, Macabre, had followed him there, as he had not seen her since the winter had begun. He'd tried to ask Silver the other day, but after declining to answer, the white mare had become strangely subdued - wandering up and down the rocky shore until the sun sunk beneath the surface of the waves.

When Bastian had awoken with the dawn, his mother was gone.

Though Silver had strictly forbidden him to wander off without a guardian, the bay colt stood vigil at the edge of the clearing the herd frequented, staring off into the shadows of the forest. Sick with concern for his aging dam, Bastian could neither eat nor sleep. By the time the sun rose on the second day, the yearling was pacing in the same manner as his mother had been the last time he'd seen her, the black banner of his tail swishing through the air in agitation. Where was his dam? Why had she not returned? Had she gone to see if she could bring Shiraz and Macabre back from Death?

It was colder today; the frigid air cut like a knife in Bastian's chest with each breath he took. Abandoning his attempts to remain whole, the colt curled into a ball, buried his head between his legs, and willed the sanctuary of sleep to claim him.

But try though he might to embrace it, oblivion would not come.

colt / yearling / bay sabino / draft mix / 16.2hh