Lazarus

In a cold, snowy night which led most to seek shelter inside, two were wandering through a distant tundra. A pregnant gray mare and her person, walking side by side through ankle high snow. Their goal had been to seek one final adventure before the mare was to rest and give birth. It hadn't been too turbulent, just them hiking further and further from home. Although now they were on their journey back. Days passed, a week, two weeks. They'd be back home before the later stages of pregnancy. After the birth, it would be a while until they'd be able to go out like this again. 

It was a serene place to be. Only their footsteps and breathing could be heard, not even wind was blowing. The snow fell silently. Occasionally, the mare would try to catch a few flakes and eat them. Her companion would join in, even trying to feed her mare snow shed caught. But the mare never seemed to understand why the soft looking flakes always turned to water, never tasting anywhere as heavenly as they looked like.

They walked on, each step taking them closer towards home.

A night like any other. And yet, different. 

Just as it was almost time to set up camp and rest, the mare's body began to ache.

It was much too early. 

And no one had predicted such a turn of events, even reassuring the mares owner the travel would do her good. 

But they had gone quite far from even the closest village. 

The mare soon couldn't walk any longer. Her owner called her family for help, but it would take anyone a while to reach them. 

Panic was rampant within the mare's owner. This was wrong. 

She worried for the foal, yes, but much more so for its mother, her beloved companion and friend. Vowing right then and there that this had been the last foal the mare would ever carry.

It was strange. 

Time felt as if it stood still and yet the storm intensified, the world continued to turn. 

And the foal was born.

It was too young and frail.

It didn't move, not a sound escaped its throat. It drew no breath.

Throughout their journey neither horse nor rider had felt cold. But now it crept into their bodies and souls, freezing them, shattering their hearts. The mare's owner tried everything she could think of. It was not enough. 

"Bunny, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The mare usually didn't understand many things. But this one, she did. She lay next to her unmoving filly, sadly nickering for ears which couldn't hear. Her owner wrapped the foal in a blanket and wept. Her mind was empty as she sat next to the horses and cried. The mare was fine. It was of incredible comfort and yet of none, to neither of them.

Eventually, the womans tears ceased.

She was cold. She got up, staggering, and grabbed a shovel from their discarded mount of gear. 

She needed to bury the foal. She needed to do something. Wondering, doubting if that's what one would do. Never questioning if it was the rational choice. 

The soil was frozen. As strong as the mare's owner was, it proved to be too much. Yet she continued to chip away at it. Her mind was numb. Bit by bit, the hole grew. Her hands became raw and bloodied and her body weak. 

How much time had passed, she couldn't tell.

How long the mare had been calling for her, she didn't know. 

The mare's voice sounded hoarse when her owner finally stopped digging and slowly came back to. Wild fear gripped the woman's heart once more as she turned.

Beneath deathly pale moonlight stood the mare and next to her what seemed like a ghost. Her filly.

The woman couldn't comprehend this. She staggered out of the shallow grave and towards the horses.  

She fell to her knees before the very much alive foal. The filly looked at her with pale, blind eyes. But she was alive. 

The woman reached for the miracle in front of her. But with wounded, dirtied hands she couldn't dare touch the little one. Instead she hovered close, weeping silently. What an insurmountable relief it was. She spoke softly to the mare.

"Bunny. Bunny is alive. Your baby."

The mare's eyes had lit up. She gently cleaned her baby, nudging and sniffing the fillies body as if to make sure she really was there.

Hands wiped clean, the mare's owner began to pet the filly as well. Carefully, as if she worried the fragile foal could break under too rough of a touch. She cradled the fillies head and wiped falling snow off its forehead. A name- an idea had come to mind.

"Your name is Lazarus."