The White Mare

It was a cool, clear night on the plains of the North, just south of East and just slightly southwest of the Northeast . The songbirds chirped to the rustling of the grass, which blew in a gentle breeze. Other than that, all was quiet. But no longer. A soft rumbling sound, like thunder off in the distance, broke the calm. The noise grew louder, strengthening and intensifying until nothing else could be heard. Then, out of the line where the grass gives way to the riverbank, the birds took to the air, and two horses appeared, galloping nobly over the ground.

One was a fierce, wild-looking bay stallion with a mane as black as night and a glorious whinny that made you want to cry and laugh and sing all at the same time. He led a slightly smaller but no less magnificent mare. She was pure white, with a white mane and a white tail and even white hooves. Her eyes were more dazzling than the sun, and the stallion could not take his eyes off of her. She could not take her eyes off of him. There was obviously a very deep, intimate, primeval bond between them.
           
Behind them emerged an entire herd of horses, riding with minds full of wisdom and hearts full of pride. The stallion, who, somewhere in the back in his mind, acknowledged that there were other things in the universe besides him and the mare, one of which was a herd of horses, for which he was responsible, and that they were complaining that they were thirsty, managed to tear his gaze off the mare and guide the herd to a nearby stream.
         
At the stream, the stallion realized that the herd should stop here for the night, and calling the mare, he found a nice, comfortable spot of grass and laid down. The mare arrived in a second or two, and nuzzled up to the stallion. He did the same, and soon they were rolling around on the ground, loving and enjoying each other’s company. It was no surprise. The stallion was born on the same day the mare was, and he was watching when she first left her mother’s side and tried to explore the world. She had stumbled, and he caught her, and the second that their eyes met, something had clicked.
         
But the stallion was not as playful as he normally would have been. It took all his willpower to contain his love, but he had to, for the mare was with a child. Well, a foal really. She was with a foal.
         
She had conceived almost a year ago. She was very late to give birth, and the stallion worried constantly. What if she went into labor while they were running? He disliked the very thought of the prospect. She wasn’t exactly laying on a bed of roses either. It wasn’t the unborn foal that was causing the trouble; it was the stallion worrying over the foal. He was always nudging her and helping her more than she would like.
         
But his love made up for her embarrassment. She enjoyed his pained expressions when she purposefully cried out and he came charging towards her at full speed, hoping and dreading that she was giving birth.
         
So, the next day, upon waking up, the stallion rallied the herd. They listened to him well. He was a good stallion, and the herd respected him. Even so, it took a good half hour to get organized and move out, as was always the case.

They followed the stream, which, fed with several streams much like itself, grew into a river. It was a small river, but a river nonetheless. As the stallion led the mare and the herd, it became apparent that they had strayed out of the herd’s territory, so far, in fact, that the stallion could not find the way back. So he stopped the herd and consulted the others, who knew less than he did.

During this time, the mare had, being in her condition, become tired and found a nice spot to lie down and rest. A moment later a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air. The stallion galloped over as fast as he could, whinnying and snorting the whole time. When he got there, he too screamed. The mare was on the ground, convulsing regularly, and it was time for the stallion to face the facts.

The mare was giving birth.

Another shriek pierced the air, followed by a pained whimper as the mare came out of the searing pain just enough to think coherently. The stallion was there at her side in seconds. His mighty figure presided over her thrashing body, but despite his pride he knew there was nothing he could do to comfort her, other than nuzzle up to her sweat-soaked head.

She continued to labor for over an hour until the stallion finally glimpsed it; the foal’s feet. He couldn’t take it anymore. This small pair of hooves, fresh from the womb, was attached to the body of a dashing young foal. That foal was causing his love so much pain. He bit onto them as gently as he could and slowly pulled out the lifeless foal.

This caused a great deal of pain for the mare, but it ended quickly. It all ended, not very suddenly, but in a soft, peaceful, smooth transition from this world into whatever came next. At some point she realized that she was dying, but she was too far along to care. All she thought of was her beloved stallion, and how when he joined her there, wherever “there” happened to be, they would spend eternity together.
The stallion looked on, hoping against hope that the two horses laying before him would get up, shake themselves off, and, after one of them figured out how to use his legs, trot back to the herd.

His wish was partially granted.

The foal quivered a bit, then leapt up to face its father. The stallion looked at it in horror. He could not believe it. The innocent, sweet, youthful foal stumbling before him had caused the death of the thing he cared for most. A tender, heartwarming murderer stood before him, but a murderer none the less.

He prepared to rear up and come down on it. He would claim that it had died with its mother. So quick a death it would suffer, there would be no scream or even a whimper. He brought up his hooves and began to bring them down.

In that moment, he made his mistake. He looked into its eyes, bright, young, dapper eyes full of youth and joy, and an incessant wanting for something, although it didn’t quite know what. In that instant, in those eyes, he saw his beloved mare, and in that second, he remembered every time he and his mare had been together. He remembered every field, every hill, every stream by which they had played as a colt and filly, and he remembered every time he had seen her eyes, so full of life and joy at seeing his. He remembered everything his fury had made him forget.

The foal went down the second after that. The stallion looked on, watching those eyes, the last physical embodiment of his love, the only thing he had to remember her by, drain free of life, and glaze over.

He stared. He looked over a mother killed by her child, and a child, killed by his father. He looked, and he decided his fate.

He ran.
He swore never to return to that place, or the herd. He swore that he would live far away from anything comfortable or familiar, avoiding the rivers and green grass and open plains for the most inhospitable patch of earth he could find, since that was what he deserved.

While he was running, a piercing pain shot up his shoulder. He saw, in the corner of his eye, a thin piece of wood with feathers tied to it sticking out of his shoulder. He looked at it, trying to figure out what it was, when another one hit him in the neck.

As he lay there, dying, his blood and his life flowing freely from his wounds, he thought of his life. He saw everything he had ever done, or thought of doing, and he remembered once again the pain of his love dying just before him.
When the light of day slowly gave way to a darkness in the stallion’s eyes, he remembered his mare, up there, wherever “there” happened to be, and he wished for only one thing: her forgivness.