When the darkness comes, she cowers and quivers, a gangly-limbed foal tucked into a hollow between two large roots. She closes her eyes, as tightly as she can; if she can’t see it, it can’t see her. She repeats it over and over, until it’s engraved in her thoughts, and for a moment, she thinks that she’s safe.
Something brushes against the root, a rustle so faint that she pauses and listens, unsure if she actually heard it. It’s funny, she thinks, how such a tiny sound can seem to cut through the words running through her mind.
The rustle comes again, more softly, and she strains to hear, not daring to open her eyes, or breathe, or stir.
She wants to get up, to scream and fight it, to beat back the encroaching darkness with the light of her markings and eyes, but she can’t move. She can’t move, and the spark of courage dies, unkindled, in her heart.
