for one wild moment; any

[Scalped]

Once, she was privileged as a horse of the People could be. She remembers being rubbed down with handfuls of grass, being blessed before battle in their ritualized way, keeping warm on the coldest winter day inside the teepee, and being revered for her markings - the warcap and shield on her breast, touted as good medicine. Privilege and love had been hers’ from the first time she opened her eyes, her birth a blessing to the People. Here, she is just another horse with immortality coursing through her veins and she is okay with that. Scalped has never had designs grander than those in her youth before her death and the discovery of her immortality. Everything now is simple - she lives, eats and breathes, makes babies, and the years fall away from her like leaves from a tree. Has she known lust? Lust is how she has ended up in this predicament: the deep gouges of their furious coupling, the characteristic round of her belly that was more foal than fat. Even now, so close to the end of the pregnancy, she can tell it is a filly that pokes her side with a tiny hoof, the motion no more than an outward ripple on her pale skin. She becomes aware of how the scent of him bakes itself in the hot air, growing fouler and more prominent and her own nose wrinkles in distaste at the putridity on her skin. The black mare is close, only a length away with ears pinned back to her skull in the same expression of distaste that is mirrored in Scalped’s wrinkled nostrils. She makes no apology for the way she smells, the memory of the undead stallion crawling across her skin like the touch of a spider’s feet but to the medicine-hat mare, it is no more than a shiver of disgust. “Scalped,” she says, her eyes covering the sandswept shimmering horizon in a broad sweep before resting on the shadowy mare. “Is there water nearby?” She could sniff it out easily, but prefers to be cordial and ask. Her intent is clear - she needs to wash the stink off, “Perhaps a source that would not be easily tainted by this,” and she gestures at herself with a shake of her head, trying to keep her movements to a minimum to not spread the foul smell around, but it is clear that she wishes to be clean again, at least before the foal is born. In the lee of the dune, a coyote pup tumbles and plays. This will be important later, but for now, Scalped gives the black mare a look of expectation.