The dew is cold and pairs well with the crisp, cool grass as Kendry tears mouthful after mouthful out of the yielding earth. Spring may have the most flavorful grazing, but Kendry prefers the bounty of summer—especially on dewy mornings like these. His thoughts are still half on his mother as he chews his way across the field, and half on the roughly gold shape that moves into his vision. Its lack of speed and apparent aggression (and the familiar equine sound of hooves) allow Kendry to graze without stopping, at least until the other beast’s stomach complains in much the same way his own was earlier.
He lifts his head, still chewing, and regards the other horse. A boy lingers at the edge of the field, short and dun and sporting a bold blend of black and white in his mane and tail. He looks both young and uncertain, and Kendry thinks of Quillion, then of himself at the yearling’s age. Kendry never had a sire, doesn’t even have an inkling of who his sire might be, and while he’s never viewed that fact as a loss for himself he knows other stallions had a more significant impact on him than, say, mares when compared to the solid identity of his dam. His understanding (based on his own experience) is that to a boy, a mature stallion is a role model of how to live, even if it’s subconscious or unintentional, and he is mindful of that now as he offers the boy a warm, wide grin and booms, “What are you doing? Come eat if you’re hungry.” |