She can’t think about the fact that this is the most interaction she has had with another equine in months All she can think about is not falling, not crushing the child behind her and hurting more than she helped. The current is stronger and the water is rising; Eirlys’ heart is in her throat, her lungs tight in her chest as if a hundred pound weight is on them. She feels like she can’t breathe, knows that she is going to fail again. Knows that she will have to watch this stallion weep over his child, the way she watched Taurus stand over their daughter and stare at her.
The stranger behind her says something, but Eirlys can barely make out his words. She can feel the hot breath of the filly on her hind legs, hear her panicked little breaths and terrified squeals. Eirlys cannot stop, cannot look back. To do so is to seal the death warrant for all three of them.
She half–stumbles, foot catching on a rock and then suddenly the stallion is there, braced against her and supporting her weight. Eirlys turns frantic, white-rimmed eyes on him, barely comprehending the words he says to her. But she nods and follows him, the pressure and heat of his body welcome proof that they haven’t died yet. She keeps glancing back at the filly, reassuring herself that the child is there and trusting this stranger to guide them out.
Eirlys nods her agreement when he says they should press harder and she picks up the pace. As they rise, the water falls until it is not nearly at such a dangerous height. Still, rain pours down on them and the ground is a soaked, muddied mess, sucking at her feet with every step she takes. Ahead, a massive tree looms and Eirlys sets her focus to taking cover under the branches there.
They come to a stop under the tree; the boughs are so thick above them that half of the rain is stopped. While they aren’t dry, they are far closer to it. She glances at the pair, and then back to the rushing water behind them. Needing to reassure herself that they’re alive, that they actually made it out and this isn’t some oxygen-deprived hallucination Eirlys extends her muzzle, brushes it over the sopping-wet tufts of hair on the girls mane.
Cold, shivering, but solid. She lets out a breathless, disbelieving laugh and then ushers the girl forward. Most of the wind is blocked by the massive tree trunk, and with careful position of herself and the stallion they corral the shaking child into the small triangle space formed by their bodies. “We need to warm you up,” Eirlys says, not…ignoring the stallion, but taking his participation for granted. SHe glances at him briefly, checks his face for any anger, and then looks away again. The child is so small – nearly newborn, if Eirlys had to guess. Was the mother lost in the storm? SHe cannot bear to see grief and so does not meet his eyes as she fusses over the filly.