Meadow

It was not so very long ago that Ylva and Runar’s entire world revolved around each other and little else. Had you asked her a year ago, Ylva would have protested at the suggestion that, one day soon, she would be keeping company with a stallion with no name. Yet, a year later, here she is. Somehow, some way, Errant has crept his way into her life and clung there quietly, like a burr nestled into the soft skin of her hide. She cannot seem to rid herself of him, but even more strangely, she finds herself not wanting to. She has grown accustomed to his stories in the evenings, and to the safety she feels at night, knowing he’s only a stone’s throw away, close enough to come running if she calls for him.

She has grown accustomed too to his frequent solitary strolls, the purpose of which he never discloses, and which Ylva never asks after. Sometimes she wonders if he has gone to fulfill his stallion’s needs with some other mare, but he never returns smelling of one: only, sometimes, of other stallions, or occasionally other animals. On these occasions, Ylva sometimes notices new scratches and small wounds scattered across his dark pelt, but at these she only presses her lips together and fumbles awkwardly with the feelings of concern that sit in her gut.

On this chilly autumn morning, Ylva had woken to find him gone on another of these walks, the only clue being the crushed disks of frosted grass left behind by his hooves. After checking to find that her son was still curled up against the roots of a young maple, Ylva had set upon gathering her breakfast.

Another horse might not appreciate the cold snap, but winter is in Ylva’s bones. Her creamy coat has thickened into a furry pelt, the whiskers around her muzzle so long that the frost that clings to them in delicate crystals hardly bothers her at all. Neither does she balk at the shock of the frozen grass melting on her tongue; if anything, it helps clear her groggy mind.

Runar is still asleep as the morning sky breathes into life with warm golds, pinks, and peaches. Ylva is watching her son absent-mindedly when the crack of a twig directs her attention elsewhere. It is only Errant returning from his stroll, of course, and Ylva whickers a soft, quiet greeting after breathing a sigh of relief. She offers no smile, but there is warmth in her dark eyes: warmth that deepens into concern as her nostrils catch wind of an alarming scent clinging to the stallion. Her gaze roams his body, and it’s difficult to make out in the dim light, but she can just see the gleam of what, to her eyes, appears to a fresh, if minor, wound. While Ylva has never pressed him for answers before, she finds herself unable to ignore her concern any longer.

“You’re hurt,” she says, taking several steps closer to get a better look, her hooves crunching in the frost. “What have you been up to so early, Errant?” She tilts her head up to look him in the eye, a stern little furrow sitting between her eyes. “You seem very prone to hurting yourself.”