Spring came all too quickly for Isetnofret's weary heart. Although winter had been long and bitter, it had given her a hiding place from her pain. Spring brought green things, and new life, and with it the stark reminder of what Iset had lost.
Still, there was some good in the melting of the snow. She could run again.
Her hooves scrabble against the reappearing grass, sending freshly grown flowers flying through the air. The wind has a bite to it. The black mare relishes the way it nips and plays with her mane and tail. She is relieved that not all pleasure has been stripped from her soul. In this, the deep thrumming of her heart and the landscape flashing by, she can always find solace.
An air of mourning, almost tangible, hangs around her. Iset is not sure that any one would much enjoy her company, but she begins to feel the need to make an effort. The Dale, after all, is still her home. Even through the bitter, desolate winter, Iset never felt unwelcome within the borders. This place had embraced her. She could not abandon it.
She tries her best to be kind about it, but it is subtly apparent that she is giving any pregnant mare or mare and foal pair a wide berth. Her heart ached too much to consider their company. In every tiny face she saw the still, dead one of her son. And so her eyes sought the ground or the sky to avoid an awkward encounter. She wasn't bitter enough to be rude, but she was hurt enough that she wasn't sure she could be congratulatory.
Iset has not seen much of Weir over the winter, and she fears his pain was great as well. The black mare finds that she worries and wonders after him, hoping he will appear once more. Even through their mutual hurt, Iset has felt pulled towards him.
A sound in a grouping of trees calls her attention, and she slows, hesitating for a moment. Now is as good a time as any, she decides.
"Hello?"