Hanging on by a thread

Eira... At last she could tolerate the the sting of her illness, no longer. Trembling terribly, Eira’s lanky, charcoal-washed limbs gave way and she plunged belly first into the moist, fragrant carpet of soil and rotting litter; her velveteen nose swerved around at once and began at once to bury through feather, irritating the festering swamp of tissue below. As she laboured, hot tears pooling in the wells of her sunken blue eyes, the rustle of looming company initially failed to rouse her attention. When his shadow slid over and she glanced up feebly, there was of course, to her astonishment, a pair of gleaming blue eyes gazing back in return. Startled, she huddled backwards, flattening her lean, angular frame upon the ground in frightened submission; though she did note the gentle quality in them (not at all like the ravenous intent in the hunters’ often evaded), the filly was timid and not at all sure of his motive. His gaze slipped away to scan, it seemed, the rest of her and through the moment, little Eira lay stock-still. A fledgeling bird, camouflaged in stillness. In time he left and the flinching mesh of visible muscles embracing her lessened their stiffness a little. Silent, for she had learned through a long absence of company to say nothing, the child watched the softly-painted movement of his long, strapping legs and glossy cape of dark feathers above, vanish into the fernery nearby. Eira let out the breath she’d been holding in a heavy sigh, but the next breath snagged again suddenly in her throat when she noticed the clicking spider left behind, in his wake. With a nervous, puzzled expression she beheld it, all the while avoiding the desire to return to her wounds, in case she missed its next movement. No sooner had he walked off than the stranger with the blue eyes returned to find her. there wasn’t the same fear through her, this time around and finely furred ears bristled to catch the chink of his hooves against the ice, induced by each step; this, she viewed with opened, incredulous eyes. Of course, Eira was no stranger to magic - both her blood and Indra’s had been gifted with power - so as the tall colt (his mane and tail were yet grown), knelt down beside her, the young girl’s focus returned to his face. Though neither actually spoke, there seemed to stand a strange understanding between them; she settled down against the bed of earth with the moss resting by grey lips, and he began to fuss about her wings. With child-like obedience (he had the upper hand should her rebuke), Eira lifted the thin length of her arm into the air. Often she winced. Once or twice she mewed, but the stranger worked with meticulous care and clemency that put her mind at ease. The filly dared not suggest a backwards glance to discover what was happening. Instead, she laid down her chin against the dirt and closed her eyes, slipping slowly beneath the agony, into a world far kinder and happier; with her Ma and Pa, and Indra, together again on the beach that they’d called home. She did not wake again until nearly two days later. Eira never heard him speak. There was a strange stiffness in her body as she stretched one gangly forelimb forward, and then the other. With her eyes barely even open, she turned her pale blue face to feed the well-established habit and gnaw the feathers glued to her wounds; to her surprise, blunt teeth fell upon a strange, smooth surface and withdrew in an instant, as her meek gaze approached instead. There were leaves bound snug around her wings (and they were fastened high upon her back). Strange, stained dressings were covering the gaping gore which had been, and as she considered it all in a state of growing confusion, the filly realised that much of the pain before present, was blunted. Narrow ears wavered forward, inspecting the little clearing inside which she was lying, but there seemed to be no other nearby - even despite the beaten soil and unfamiliar scent laid thick about it. For a few moments longer, she searched with curious, guileless eyes, before turning her attention back to the queer blankets upon her. Tender lips surveyed the alien material, ghosting above it while breath pumped quizzically to gauge its reason; interestingly, where before the flesh there might have writhed, tears building in her eyes, she felt nothing whatsoever. Delicately she touched it, and though the sensation radiated through her, it wasn’t nearly as excruciating as she remembered. Softly the filly snorted and attempted to prop herself up. "I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter."

- Pablo Neruda, Winter Garden