I watch the adults, their interactions enrapt me. The one called Reuen says my name, a small whisper, an imitation of my unsure voice. She is in great pain, and still she manages to reach her maw towards me. Her pelt leaks rivers of crimson, but I do not flinch. I am quick to accept, touch I do not fear, mother cuddles me so often. Our colors are almost alike, though the older females perhaps a tinted sheen, a mixture of chocolate and oil. I would not know until sometime later, that she and mother were practically mirrors. I giggle, sending titters of noise from my tiny jaw, whiskers stroking my tender chin. A sooted maw tells us of pain, of hurt, of hate. My insides roll. Just the words alone are enough to set harsh thoughts rolling in my small, innocent mind. I did not know hate, nor did I wish to.
I blink up at mother, my copper eyes reflecting her stern look, she is upset with me. I have said something offensive about the painted mare’s face. Mother calls her ‘Fiasko’, I do my best to remember it, practicing it in my mind. The one I spoke of reaches for me as well, a gentle velvet strokes my forehead, this feels nice. Her words are kind, and she does not seem to be upset. I learn of how some wounds are different, hers are old and will stay. I consider this, how very unfair I thought that was, the permanence. Something I had never contemplated before. ”I’m sorry.” I offer though forgiveness has already been given.
