Meadow

Seasons had changed and the world around him slowly started to warm again. Snow melted into large puddles and now, instead of being constantly cold, the colt found himself constantly covered in mud. Bit by bit the caked dirt dried and took off clumps of his sooty winter coat, revealing the dark silver body that moved beneath. The winter had not done him a great justice, but his lines hard started fill out. No longer did he look like death on unstable stilts. Dark eyes looked out at the ocean from under wildly growing locks of mane. He could never forget how death had almost claimed him before he had been able to see this season, before he had been able to see a year of life. Now, as he watched the crashing waves, he wondered how many had been lost to the season’s cruelty.

Every day since his arrival the colt walked the island of Crossing. Searching, hoping, despairing. He scanned everything for any sign of his missing brother. Whether it was a living breathing soul, or a corpse on the shore, he would stop at nothing. He had tried different times of day, different routes, every place and thing he could find. Each time his hopes had been dashed. Now he almost walked the paths out of habit more than anything else. Breathing a heavy sigh out at the waves, he turned back into the island.

For months now he had been returning back to Cinnamon’s side out of instinctual desire for companionship. Sometimes he would have wandered away again and others he would have remained close. From their first day together the boy knew the stallion had his own life to live and his own memories to reflect on. Zharko was not about to keep the man from his own life, especially since he bachelor had most likely never intended to have a young horse wash up at his feet. Still, Zharko felt as though it would be good to tell his companion he was ready to go in search for his brother. He had nothing else on this island to live for.

Throughout the winter horses had come and gone from the Common and the culture of the area had not been lost on Zharko’s naivety. Still a youth, he had come to the conclusion better places for him to spend his time were the Falls and the Meadow. He could be at ease in these places. The Meadow in particular had a beauty about it in this season that he secretly enjoyed. The spring flowers started to bud and the young grass was sweet on his lips. Even if Cinnamon was not here this morning, it was a pleasant place to graze and let the sun further dry the mud that caked and dirtied all that was Zharko.