Meadow

It’s peculiar, yet somewhat satisfying, to see the tall stallion, normally so composed, reduced by two probing questions to boyish stuttering. Ylva’s stern frown melts a little in the presence of such vulnerability, but her composure remains unmoved as she awaits his answer. “I do not look for trouble,” he says, as though he is a colt being berated by his mother. Ylva listens patiently, putting together the pieces of what he says and using them to infer what he does not say, and finds herself equal parts concerned and moved.

Finally she nods, and lets her probing dark stare drift downwards, to the russet-brown tendrils of Errant’s mane. She thinks back to the day they had met and the things he had said, and how she had never expected to see him again after that day. Yet, here he is, standing before her with the soft light of the early morning slanting across his dark features.

She angles her body away from him then and adopts a more relaxed posture, signalling that her interrogation is over, even if her intentions are anything but. Her eyes find the still-slumbering form of her son, curled beneath the maple tree atop a bed of brown and gold leaves. “Errant,” she finally says, her voice gentle, yet heavy with thought. “When we first met, you told me how you searched for a new calling: for someone to protect. You told me how dangerous it was for a mother and young child to be alone, and when I insisted we were perfectly safe, you did not bring up the matter again. Yet…”

She turns her head to look him in the eye, the sun’s light hitting her face and turning her dark gaze a light golden-brown. “All this time later, here you are still. Am I wrong to assume that you have quietly found your calling... here, with us?”