[open] come on skinny love just last the year

[spindlewinter]

come on in, we haven't slept for weeks;
drink some of this, it'll put colour in your cheeks

The fog is losing its battle with the sunlight as she grazes, slinking away as if it knows the warmth and light will only grow in strength from now on. When it returns at dusk the grey mare will be gone and it is reluctant to give her up yet. It does all the same, drifting first to strongholds in hollows and shadows before being forced to flee completely. She begins now to relax, the gentle heat on her back a calming influence, until finally her consciousness blends into the field around her and she is just another part of the picture, a detail of the wider scene added by an unconcerned artist.

Such is her state of mind when the stallion approaches that she only realises his presence when he is close enough to begin speaking. The sound focusses her again, bringing her back to the present with a sudden dart towards anxiety. But his voice is a pleasant one and his greeting friendly: her full-tilt approach towards alarm is steadied, hovering at slight apprehension. She notices his smile, uneven but with a suggestion at honesty. “I’m well, tha-“ she begins, the nerves making her sound formal in a way that she instantly begins to feel conscious of. Her thanks go incomplete, however, as she looks over his shoulder at the approaching quartet.

Their progress is slow and that self-reflective part of her insists that staring is rude, but she finds she cannot help herself. They match and they do not, silvery in appearance and yet uneven in every other respect. Two of the tall ones and the little one move awkwardly, impaired by malformed limbs; she cannot see the saliva or the blood on the baby’s shoulder but some instinctive part of her smells it, senses the disease and the difficulty.

Questions replace the nerves, the anxiousness, the introspection – she wants to know why the little one is so small, how the four came together, what vengeful god they angered – and then they are close enough to see properly, to inspect. She cannot help herself but move forwards when she realises the middle child is just that – not dwarfed or impaired in growth (although her leg – Winter ducks her nose now that she is close to blow and sniff at that strange short leg, as if she can suss it out with a simple closer look) but a foal. She gives no though to whether the others will stop her, despite their defensive formation around the filly. On some instinct awakened she moves in, hearing from behind her their leader’s question. “Excuse me... Do you know where we might find a safe place?”

The sound stirs her once again and she turns her head, the rest of her reluctant to shift attention from the child. For a moment she stares because she does not know the answer – to his question, or the insurmountable problems the four must face. “No,” she says at length, and an idea strikes her. “But he might. He – I’m new, but maybe he knows?” And her eyes turn to Magnus imploringly, in the hope that he can help her to help these strange children.

Spindlewinter