The unicorn foal felt sick.

He brayed weakly from his spot on the soft grass. His mother nuzzled him worriedly, fearing he was too young to survive being seized by a disease.

The head thestral came to watch her, thinking deeply about any help he could offer. His queen slid through the shadows to press her cheek against her husband's, her large black eyes fastened upon the blue-eyed colt. She whickered.

One ear twitched forward then back as the head thestral considered what his queen was suggesting.

After pacing and fretting, he nickered for his oldest—a daughter.

She stepped forward with the grace of a lily, yet her skeletal build would cause most humans to shirk away in discomfort.

Her father touched the tip of his wing to the tip of her wing. At this moment, the mother thestral knelt to console the widowed unicorn.

The oldest child nuzzled her father then touched the tip of her wing to the unicorn foal's forehead. She raised a wing in the air and took flight for the Realm of Storms.

Rain beat hard. Strong winds gusted—winds so strong the thestral was nearly blown away. She threw her muzzle fiercely against the wind with her ears flat against her head. Her body was soaked.

The wind was—thankfully—warm. It was neither autumn nor winter in the Realm of Storms.

A frog splattered against her face.

The wind's goal was to shove beings outside of the country-sized circular area it existed on. There were many wonderful medicinal plants—in the heart of the realm was a weed that, crushed in one's stew, would cure loneliness forever. But anyone who licked it from the base up was paralyzed from the waist down two days later. Eating it straight caused death. Handling it without gloves would lead a person to have bubbles of paralysis—a pinky, small spot on one's stomach, thick spot in one's neck.

If someone wanted these wondrous things, they had to be willing to get soaked to the bone and press on, despite the discomfort.

Luckily what the thestral sought was only a couple of hours in and not several days. Not because no one could sleep in the Realm of Storms—though that was certainly not a perk.. Because the unicorn foal would die if it took too long.

The length of time to obtain the plant made sense by the illness. If it was a highly lethal illness, the plant wasn't too far. If it wasn't lethal or would take twenty years to overrtake a life, the plant was near the heart. Loneliness was painful, and only those driven to the near-impossible journey were lonely enough to have it removed.

The best part was, outside of the Realm of Storms (at the only way to enter, for a magic spell blocked the rest) sat a hut. Inside that hut, a guru would tell you what plant you were looking for, show you a picture, and tell you how deep to go. This guru was half-goblin, half-house elf and had swept through and inspected the Realm of Storms some thousand years ago.

He could understand every language, even a thestral's silent one because he was born extrasensory. He also knew the use of each plant not merely through observation but because the plants "talked" to him.

The particular plant this thestral sought was an orange clover with black dots that looked like ink blotches. The plant was supposed to appear diseased, with red pus oozing from an opening. If a clover had no oozing pus, it wasn't ripe.

Lightning struck so close to the thestral that she felt the ground quivering from the impact and friction frizzling by her ear.

Two more minutes of walking, and she caught sight of the bed of orange and black clovers.

It was a relief to dip her neck under the pouring rain, rip up a clover, and know her journey was half over.

Into the air she went, joining the wind with her wings and her might.

When she exited the Realm of Storms, the thestral was exhausted. The half-goblin, half-house elf towel-dried her with a fluffy blue towel. Standing still, she accepted his help gratefully.

After he finished, she inwardly debated resting. However, plagued by the mental image of the unicorn foal dying, she couldn't.

Stretching her wings, she dropped a black feather. Forward, she trotted, out the building and up into the sky.

She could rest when the job was done.

The thestral was greeted warmly by her family, nuzzling her in acknowledgement of the great feat she had achieved.

After she had received a nuzzle from each of them, she carried the clover to the unicorn foal. His mother coaxed him to open his mouth, though he did not want to. He shook his head stubbornly and twisted his neck to avoid her, breathing shallowly the whole while.

She persisted. After several minutes of this, his neck began to ache. He opened his mouth because he wanted peace. He wanted his mother to leave him alone.

The thestral deposited the clover on his tongue. He crushed it with his teeth. Tasting the bitter pus. If he felt better, he would have snorted derisively, but for the time being, the thought of snorting made his stomach pang.

The pus from the clover reached for his lungs. It salved over them.

His breathing returned to normal after one violent sneeze. He fell into a cleansing sleep, dropping his head to his chest.