It is a sharp contrast from the Desert, coming to the meadow in autumn. To get there, she must walk through the woodland adjacent to the grassy pasture, embracing the chance to look up at the fiery reds and warm oranges of the dying season. She smiles, enjoying the reminder that there are seasons, for every inch of the year in the Desert is only hot, dry and breezy. Out here though, the reminders of death and life are closer, almost tangible, as if by reaching out her muzzle to touch the delicate leaf it might burst into flames before her, only to be reborn as a new tree in spring like a phoenix.
Eventually, the trees begin to thin and then disappear altogether. She has made it to the waves of grassland, as far as the eye can see. Pevensie pins back her hears, hobbling her way down a slippery hillock to reach the even ground. It has not begun to show yet, but she feels different in herself, a sickness in her stomach, an aching in her joints. Not from old age or low mood, a good sort of ache. Her time with Hurricane has not gone unnoticed in her flesh and bones.
Still though, to all outward appearance, the wild buckskin pony is no different. The ostrich feather still floats in her mane, the mud still clogs in her fetlocks. She is not the picture of grace and beauty that catches her honey-brown eyes. Another mare, white and finely sculpted. Something worthy of a place in a hall alongside Michael Angelo or the Greek Masters.
Beauty has never intimidated Pevensie though, so she approaches unchecked, warm smile in place, glassy eyes curious. "You look nervous. Are you ok?" she asks, cocking an ear toward the girl to hear her response.
