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It was raining. Fat droplets of water, soft and warm as tiny pillows, bounced humdrum off the leaves of the mighty oak tree. They ran, too, before they touched the ground, over the surface of a single, dark green fruit, ripe and heavy with its precious burden of life. Those fruits that had hung around this verdant chrysalis had long since fallen to earth, and the younglings once held within their walls had probably settled down for their first true experience of sleep. The night hung about the landscape like so many swathes of black silk, cool and obscuring.

All was not well.

Something was moving inside the lone chamber, contorting the outer membrane but seemingly unable to breach it. Had there been any light to shine through the fruit, or indeed anyone to observe the scene, twig-like limbs would have shown black and shadowy against the inner wall. Like a spectator at a twisted show of shadow puppetry, they might have watched as the creature twisted, flailed, contorted, thrashed, but never broke free. The fall to earth might have assisted, but the connection between fruit and tree was still horribly sound - there was no sign of it breaking. And whatever was inside was running out of time.

A shroud of cumulonimbus blanketed the land. Not even the stars bore witness as the struggles ceased.

Without a doubt, the next few moments would have been far more triumphant had the rain not masked them.

The tearing of plant matter, inaudible over the clatter of raindrops on the leaves above, announced the turning of the tables. A pair of hooves ripped out into the air near the top of the fruit - the youngling must have summoned the last of its strength for one almighty blow - and that was all that was needed. Gravity did the rest of the work. The outer membrane parted like a curtain, and a dark shape tumbled to the ground. Free. Coupled with the chill night air, a surprisingly soft impact, at least for one not cushioned by fruit, was enough to knock the newborn's system into rapid gear.

His first, gasping breath cut through the sound of the rain.

For some minutes the foal lay on the ground beneath the tree, shivering and panting, trying to recover some energy as the wind's icy teeth snapped nearby. The night had grown cold so swiftly, and no one felt it more than the sap-soaked youngling. Instinct cried out for food and shelter, but tiny limbs were having trouble responding to the commands of an inexperienced brain. Where was he to find food in any case? The fruit was still hanging from the tree, much too high to reach from the floor.

Only one course of action remained. Steeling his flanks against the bitter cold, the foal struggled to manoeuvre his legs beneath his body and stand. Predictably enough he fell over the first time, but his resolve seemed unshaken. Weakened though he was, the determination to survive still burned in his young heart. He tried again, and again, to no avail. Finally, on the fourth attempt, he managed to plant all four hooves on the ground, balance himself with his wings and stand. His legs shook, more with the effort of balancing than with the cold, as he gingerly raised his head to the torn fruit above.

Sweet, sticky sap dripped on to his forehead as he tore a mouthful free - success. The high-energy fruit seemed to warm him from within, and, galvanised, he snatched another bite. Legs a little more sure, he shifted to stand taller. Leathery wings flapped a little at one point to prevent him from overbalancing. A good two thirds of the fruit was out of reach, though, and he would need more food before long.

After eating what he could manage to tear down, the foal took stock of his surroundings. No great abundance of grass beneath the oak tree, and in any case he would need more fruit of some kind if he was to grow strong. Ears twitched - no sound of danger yet, but time was of the essence. He could not stay here, sanctuary though it seemed, for there was neither accessible food nor enough water. And yet, looking out into the night, the world seemed very large and inhospitable beyond the reach of the oak tree's branches. Was this the fate of every Nequus? Cast into the world alone and uncared for?

Perhaps someone heard the youngling's silent prayer. The clouds peeled away from the night sky for a brief moment, and a finger of silvery light brushed against the grass just beyond the boundary between tree and world. Transfixed, the foal turned his eyes to the heavens.

The moon, full and pale and perfect, seemed to smile down upon his sticky, wondering face.

His world as he had known it falling silently away, the young Nequus took his first tentative steps towards the light. This was it. The Truth. Even alone, thrust into a strange world with no elders to guide him, suddenly the nature of life was beginning to make sense. He had been intended for this night, for this struggle, for this hard-fought victory, and now for this shining reward.

The first touch of moonlight upon his back, almost a physical caress, was only an affirmation of belief.

Slowly, testing his legs, he broke into a careful trot. The rain was warm, for the wind had fled at the moon's arrival. Fresh, clean water washed away the last vestiges of the foal's difficult birth. All the while, the moonlight seemed to race ahead, leading the way into the world like a mother. Excitement rushed through the youngling's veins, intoxicating his mind and invigorating his limbs. He began to run faster, almost galloping now, not fleeing but chasing, not fearing but wondering.

And then the clouds passed, and the moon reigned supreme.

Indescribable joy filled the foal's heart as he reached his top speed, instinctively knowing, as all horses do, how to gallop. The landscape of the night was dusted with silver moonlight, illuminated but never dazzled, and everything around was wild and free and beautiful. This was the way. This was the Truth - to feel the moonlight upon one's face, to run through the night unburdened and unchecked, to love the world as one's own self - this was not only Nequus. This was something more. This was a great and powerful birthright, with a great and powerful name, and the foal, suddenly knowing it, revelled in it.

Spreading his bat-like wings as he galloped ever onward, offering up his heart and soul in thanks to the benevolent moon, the newly anointed child of the night took a deep breath and called out, exultant, triumphant, his very first word.

"AEEERIIIII!"