It has been a month since Cherokee ran away with her oldest daughter. She left behind her newborn, who thankfully was adopted by Ysabel, and he felt it was all his fault. All these questions the filly had about her mother and sister, they were all his fault. If he had just forgiven Cherokee or been easier on her...but he had been real. He had kept his cool as best as he could, but he was still a child. He was still too young to know how to calm his anger or his jealousy.

Summer was unusually cold this year, but having a smaller herd may have something to do with that. Actually, Ysabel's arrival brought the numbers up almost to where they were before the disappearances. That didn't help the fact that he no longer had a mare to cuddle up to at night. No mare and no child to care for. How odd it was for such a young male to be craving the comforts a child brings to the table. Sure, there was still Lakota, but it didn't feel the same without Cherokee here. She was so good with the foals and he just played with them from time to time.

He slept in this morning, but he was awoken by the deep-throated call of a heron. It was close, standing in a shallow part of the stream he slept near. The sounds of rushing water had calmed him to sleep late last night when he lay there troubled. He stands on limbs that shake at first, but slowly he comes to grip with reality. There was no sense of letting the past drag him down any longer because he knew that would only work him to ruin. He learned this by watching his father struggle and from listening to his many stories.

Ironclad walks lazily past the trees over and over until they disappeared from the land and he only saw the sea. The dark colt was just going through the motions until his hoof felt a change in the pebbled sand. Blue eyes wondered down where the found a curious hoof print in the sand. It came from the sea..."Cherokee!" He calls out frantically as she follows the trail of hoof prints to where he thinks his former herd member stands. He quickly finds the owner of the prints was not her, not in the slightest. "You're not her," he whispers as he traces the form of the dark mare steps away from him.