“Nestyn!”, I neighed, my voice broken and shrill, tearing into nothing as the wind rent it, mixing the shreds of it with the husks of the late autumn leaves. Still, I neighed again, and then again.
“Nestyn! Sweet One! Where are you?”
But my filly did not answer, and skittering fear trembled my muscles, tricked my senses, and sank into my soul, overpowering caution and instinct, and making my legs feel as inept as when I myself was newly foaled.
My baby – her legs had only grown strong enough to carry her at the last fullmoon – we had been running only a moonrise later, scarcely without rest.There could not be – the brown of leaves and dulling greens did not hide our glowing coats, nor our horns.
And men wanted those, or else us.
I knew – we all knew, had always known, although we did not know why.
All knew the stories of the trapped and the murdered… Like Alyn my mate, who was killed before he met his daughter, his Sweet One, and the men had been looking for us, greedy for more.
My voice was nearly gone, when I felt the first flakes of snow, a sudden gathering, building to a blizzard – and the sounds of the men and their dogs faded, leaving only the softly chittering redbirds…
And there was Nestyn, by a small brush, nestled safely into the salvation of snow.