AN: Jack, what have I told you about hanging out with Prussia?
Title: The Truth of that Night was Snow
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: seriously not mine
Dreams were dreams; only one facet of what might be the truth of the world, and the truth of that night was snow.
For the little creamy filly foal, her whole world was her mother, the warm comfort of her milk, and the Man who stood close and made admiring noises. Born in the early spring, she has known only the warm sun and the green grass, so the black clouds and cold winds frighten her. Crying her distress, she runs on shaky feet around the small yard, and shies from the cold white flakes that fall around her. The wind wraps gently around her for all its howling, but she is too afraid to hear the voice on it that murmurs comfort. Seeing her distress, the Man lets her and her mother into the paddock, and her mother leads her to the shelter of the trees. Trembling, she stays close, disliking how her mother's creamy coat and silver mane & tail blend into the storm, and so she never sees the Winter Spirit hovering above, or hears his softly breathed plea for forgiveness, even as the storm closes its grip around them. She cries aloud and hears her mother's terrified scream as the noise of the wind is eclipsed by the sound of crashing trees and branches, but no harm comes to her, pressed close against her mother's hide. Instead the wind carries a stallion's cry, and around them it swirls almost gently, parting the curtain of snow so that they can see the great silver stallion standing near the high fence, where the wind has blown a tree across the barrier.
"Go" the wind whispers "Hurry", and "Come" says the silver stallion, so they do, her mother chivving her along, as the wind forms a barrier of snow around them, eclipsing them in the white. Sheltered between her parents the little filly stumbles but does not fall, and her sire leads them to a small scrubby gully, where she is permitted to rest and drink.
"What have you named our foal?" her sire asks, looking with pride at his beautiful daughter, all tiny and silver and white. "She should be Kunama, which means snow, for Winter and the Wind have brought her to us."
"Kunama" agrees her dam, nuzzling them both, and the silver filly wags her furry wisp of a tail, as the Winter Spirit smiles in shy pride and agreement. Careful of his welcome, Jack comes closer, and watching her parents for permission he offers her his hand. Kunama butts her nose against his cold hand making him laugh as she sneezes, eyes wide with surprise at the chill, but she lets him scratch around her ears gently. With a whoop he is gone, and the tornado leaves with him, leaving only the steady roar of the storm, which is already beginning to slacken.
"Remember him" her sire tells her. "For Winter will always be a friend to the Silver Herd."
Kunama does, even as she grows. When she drinks at the pool of the moon, it is as if the quicksilver moon runs down her throat, and as she remembers the way Winter flies with the wind and her sire's words to her, a wish rises up out of herself without her conscious devising (Freedom). So when the snow comes, her snow, she is only slightly confused to see the Boy coming towards her. When he takes off her hobbles and opens the gate with tears in his voice she hesitates for only a moment, before she gathers her courage and leaves. She looks back only once, to see him as a black hooded figure the way they first met, rising up out of the mist, and she is not at all surprised to see Winter behind him, looking at her with wise blue eyes, his hand on the Boy's shoulder. Then she is away, galloping printless through the snow, prancing for joy - a ghost horse, invisible in the snow, free in all the freedom of the hills. The storm is kind to her, thick enough to hide her tracks, but not so strong as to blow her off the high bridle track against the sky. High above, the moon may be full, but beneath the storm clouds Kunama travels safely, with no light to reflect off silver mane & tail turning it into foam on the waterfall, or turn creamy hide to molten silver. On and on she goes, silver mare returning home, and the snow-filled night is hers, Winter's gift to the Silver Herd. So tired that she walks half in a dream, the merest impression of a ghost horse through the black sallee. Freedom, whispers the wind and the snow, and Kunama feels the truth of it echo up from the crunch of the snow underfoot up through strong hooves and into her blood and bone. Her whole world is the black and white of the snow and the dark night, the blue of Winter's eyes and the promise of the wind - a dream or reality? For Kunama, proud and free, the truth of her world this night is snow.