Hanging on by a thread

Eira... Though a complimentary compilation of her stocky, sinewy mother, Cirrus (daughter of the Ardent and the moonless night sky), and the noble characteristics of her father, Kirottu - the cursed and long misunderstood, it seemed unnatural that Eira should present in such a stunted and waif-like fashion. In truth, there was barely a season between the pairs’ births, yet the scrawny filly appeared in all respects to be much younger and misleadingly helpless as she absorbed the steamy warmth of the long-legged herbalist. Her dwarfish frame was the unfortunate consequence of malnourishment, right when her need had been critical; Kaos had thrown her world into disarray, robing the month-old of her Ma (and Pa) and sentencing her to a good many months without milk. The foal was intelligent, however, perhaps beyond her age. Through memory she retained an exceptional quantity (and quality) of information, and having had watched her parents browse on the grass and foliage about forest skirting their beach, she fought hard to survive by imitating just this. Pure misfortune had cursed her sickly frame. The Rift, wild and without mercy, had afflicted her skin and so too caused the pain and tingling numbness in her hind-left; forks of blinding lightning frequently struck it, drawn to life by the queer static energy pulsing through her tissue. It was for exactly this reason that one such bolt had descended, and should she not have risen so quickly to follow him, perhaps she might bare yet another burn from its touch. Instead, she squealed softly, yet fearful and unaccustomed, and her leonine tail snapped tight against the taut, narrow haunches, as Eira scooted forward. The colt was brave, dauntless it did seem, and though his eyes slipped to the point of fried moss, he barely flinched in response at all. So comfortable did she feel there beside him, bathed in the dimness of his shadow, that Eira barely noticed the gentle caress of hot breath and the very delicate fondling of her ears. Seconds bled into minutes before the soft pillow of his pastel, white muzzle collided against her skin; the filly’s breath paused and her legs looked to stiffen. Indra’s nose was as soft as the powdery-black feathers that she knew lay beneath his wings, and as it caressed her tear-stained cheek, the horror of misadventure began to melt away. Behind them, the ocean’s incoming tide crashed on wildly across the shore; a warm Orangemoon breeze stirred it up into a white, frothing fury. The foal had been playing, paddling (for prior, she’d held no fear), until a driving back-wind forced a taller wave forward, and its murky black tunnel had swallowed her body, whole. “It’s alright,” her beloved womb-mate had whispered against the fur within her ear, “you’re safe now Eira,” and she slipped beneath his wing. The filly’s blue eyes opened, half expecting the small roan figure to appear, yet as they wandered towards the source of the snug and soothing warmth, the painted grullo colt was there still, standing close beside. Naive was she to the slow and steady advancement of his manner, so the uncertainty which began to pluck away at her vulnerable resolve was scarcely understood. The length of her silver fringed tail flicked one way, and then the other, then he murmured a word against her, “soft,” and her gaunt mask shifted to better meet his eye. Soft? Fighting to find some context or the reason behind its sound, she looked ever imploringly upwards, an element of needy infatuation ripening also in her heart. "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