She’s been wandering of late, travelling more in these last few weeks of her pregnancy than she has in the last five years. It’s more of pacing really – from the Sylvan woods to the field and back again, over and over and over. She’s not found anything worth pausing over and she does not expect this night to be any different.
Even when she passes the grey stallion that smells of Nerine, she doesn’t stop. He looks familiar in the way that kingdom mates often do, though Djinni is an infrequent presence on the coastal grey beach of late. It’s not until she hears the voice of a child that she hesitates.
With one front hoof hovering a half inch from the ground, she stops. She lowers it slowly as her dark-rimmed ears flick to catch the next sound. There – behind her. In the direction the Nerenian stallion had just gone. It’s probably just the hormones that surge through her that makes her turn, probably just the maternal instinct that has her looking for what she knows she will see in the shrubbery in front of the stallion.
There.
A rattle of movement in the leaves as a colt struggles to stand. He is successful – eventually – and when he rises to his feet, Djinni is there a few feet hind the stallion’s shoulder, her green eyes round and curious.
“Hey,” she says softly, her attention on the child. He doesn’t know where his mother is, he says. Of course he doesn’t; no mother who wants to be found leaves their child unattended in the Field. This Beqanna may be a quieter one than the Beqanna of old, but it is still foolish to leave a newborn alone. She should tell him the truth – that his mother is gone and he is all alone in the world, but she can’t quite bring herself to do so. Instead she watches him from afar, her eyes on the little patches of white across his sides, patched like her own, patched like her firstborn Ivar, patched like the unborn twins that stretch out her wide barrel. She smiles.
Even when she passes the grey stallion that smells of Nerine, she doesn’t stop. He looks familiar in the way that kingdom mates often do, though Djinni is an infrequent presence on the coastal grey beach of late. It’s not until she hears the voice of a child that she hesitates.
With one front hoof hovering a half inch from the ground, she stops. She lowers it slowly as her dark-rimmed ears flick to catch the next sound. There – behind her. In the direction the Nerenian stallion had just gone. It’s probably just the hormones that surge through her that makes her turn, probably just the maternal instinct that has her looking for what she knows she will see in the shrubbery in front of the stallion.
There.
A rattle of movement in the leaves as a colt struggles to stand. He is successful – eventually – and when he rises to his feet, Djinni is there a few feet hind the stallion’s shoulder, her green eyes round and curious.
“Hey,” she says softly, her attention on the child. He doesn’t know where his mother is, he says. Of course he doesn’t; no mother who wants to be found leaves their child unattended in the Field. This Beqanna may be a quieter one than the Beqanna of old, but it is still foolish to leave a newborn alone. She should tell him the truth – that his mother is gone and he is all alone in the world, but she can’t quite bring herself to do so. Instead she watches him from afar, her eyes on the little patches of white across his sides, patched like her own, patched like her firstborn Ivar, patched like the unborn twins that stretch out her wide barrel. She smiles.
D J I N N I
genie | rose gold tobiano dun | trickster