As the adrenaline ebbed from his body and his heart rate slowed, a bone-deep weariness settled upon Hasan. His amber-green eyes shuttered closed and though his skin still prickled all over, he ceased his scratching, instead leaning his full weight against the maple. Its trunk was broad, and did not creak or give way beneath his weight, but pressed back against him like a hungry lover, its firm grooves and furrows solid against his soft, damp barrel. He did his best to empty his mind, focusing instead on the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the canopy overhead and the earthy scent of petrichor strong in his nostrils. But still, a phantom scent of Warwick lingered, as did the memory of the stallion's teeth and hooves on his body. His neck throbbed. Then he thought of Baba Yaga, and wondered how she would react to Warwick having come for her, and to Hasan having somehow prevailed. She had warned Hasan of the smaller stallion and how fierce and sturdy he was.

Thinking of Baba Yaga in turn reminded him of her retirement, and how now the weight of the entire Forest's safety now rested on his own shoulders. Conflicting emotions swirled in his belly.

Then there was the crunch of hooves on leaf litter, and Hasan's eyes flew open. He stood alert, every muscle beneath his stark black-and-white coat tense and his ears and nose working to identify whoever had snuck up on him. Then a mare's scent reached him, quickly followed by soft, playful words. He could hear the smile in her voice, and he relaxed slightly, chewing and licking his lips as the strain dissipated from his body. Yet his curiosity was piqued. He recognised the scent as one that frequently lingered in the nooks and crannies of the Forest, but could not put a name or identity to it.

Then a faint memory came to him from not long after he'd returned to the Forest two years ago, freshly blinded. Hasan had been deep in the pits of his own misery then, and he'd felt irritated by the mare's cheerful tone. He'd called her something—

"Hello, sunshine," he greeted her, his voice weary but not unfriendly, and extended his white nose outward, searching for her in the grey abyss that made up the remnants of his vision. "You know, I actually wouldn't mind if you checked something for me. My neck—" He pulled back and turned said neck, revealing the muscle of its right side, which was swallowed by the broad white marking that dripped down from his crest. A chunk of hair had been removed, and a fine purple bruise blushed atop the glimpse of pink skin. "There, near my jaw—am I bleeding? Is the skin broken?"

He did not know how much the mare saw of the goings-on in the Forest, or whether she'd witnessed his victorious fight with Warwick. Strangely, he did not hate the idea of her asking about it.