You Are the Horse
---
You are born suddenly.
There is no gentle awakening, no time to understand who you are.
Only the fall — heavy, wet, shocking.
The ground beneath you is cold, the steppe endless, the sky — pale and blurred.
Your legs buckle, your body feels foreign. You shiver, and the world around you sways and trembles, as if it too struggles to stay upright.
A warm tongue gently touches your coat. Mother. Her touch smells of warmth and life. She nudges you, urging you to rise.
You try to stand, your legs like spaghetti. The first attempt — you fall. The second — you slam your side painfully.
The third — your knees tremble, but you straighten. You stand. Wobbling, but standing.
Ahead, the herd awaits.
You see them — silhouettes of horses, strong, free, breathing the wind. They are your family.
Your eyes still see poorly, but you feel it — you are part of something greater.
The first sip — thick milk, flooding you with life. Warm, heavy, nourishing every cell of your small body.
It is not water. It is a promise of survival.
You barely finish drinking before the herd moves. Mother leads. You wobble after her, your legs still disobedient, your heart hammering in your chest like a drum.
You stumble, but you rise again.
Again and again.
You are alive.
You are one of them.
The steppe wind tickles your coat, carrying the scents of earth, grass, life.
And somewhere, at the very edge of your newborn consciousness, a first feeling stirs — curiosity.
You breathe deep.
You exist.
---
You walk beside your mother, her side a strong wall of warmth, her breathing a song of safety.
You feel the herd around you: dozens of bodies, breaths, steps.
It is more than family. It is your world.
You notice him — a massive stallion at the edge of the group.
He seems different. His muscles are taut like ropes. His gaze heavy, as if it weighs a ton.
The wind plays through his mane, his hooves beating a dull rhythm against the earth.
He is not just a horse. He is support. A shield. A law.
And in that law, you find strange comfort.
This is your father.
The leader.
Other foals surround you — as clumsy and fragile as you. Their legs are thin and wobbly, their steps awkward.
You sniff each other, nudge heads, exchange scents — your first handshake, your first language.
The sun spins above, the steppe undulates in green waves around you.
You drink milk, then learn to chew greenery, tearing it with your awkward lips.
The grass is bitter, but there is something right in it, something true.
You make your first independent choice.
You grow.
The herd moves. Always.
When one stops — another begins to graze.
When one eats — another watches.
Life is movement. Life is the herd.
It is still unsteady, still strange, but you begin to understand:
You are not alone.
You are part of something.
And that something is stronger than fear.
---
One day, among endless days when the wind whispers old tales through the tall grasses,
you feel something different.
A scent.
Sharp, burning your nostrils like smoke after a fire.
Your ears shoot up. Your legs freeze. Your heart pounds, desperate to escape your chest.
You lift your head and see him.
A shadow on the edge of the world — a wolf.
He stands motionless. His eyes — two drops of cold fury.
Your mind screams: "Run!"
But your body refuses to move.
And then he steps between you and the threat.
Your father.
The leader.
He thrusts his chest forward, snorts so loudly the earth beneath you shudders.
His hooves strike the ground — not just a warning, but a verdict.
His muscles coil, ready to explode in a violent charge.
The wolf hesitates.
You see his ears twitch.
See his eyes dart across the herd.
See him feel the strength — not his own.
Time stretches like thick honey.
Every second is an eternity.
Every breath scorches your lungs.
And then — the wolf vanishes, melting into the tall grass like a ghost.
No fight. No blood. Only a cold, silent retreat.
You remain standing, knees trembling, ears ringing.
You do not yet know how many such encounters lie ahead.
You do not yet know how fragile this peace is.
But inside you, a first shard of understanding has begun to form:
Strength is not only in fighting.
Strength is what others feel in you.
---
Time flows like a quiet river.
You grow with the herd.
Your legs strengthen. Your movements gain confidence. You learn to feel the earth beneath your hooves.
Food is no longer just milk.
You tear grass with your teeth, learning to distinguish tender stems from the dry.
The bitterness of greenery becomes the taste of growing up.
Days become a routine:
Morning — grazing.
Noon — wandering.
Evening — quiet gatherings where the elders murmur stories among themselves.
You listen to their tales, filled with strange scents, distant storms, victories, and losses.
You understand little.
But their voices soothe you.
You feel ancient wisdom in every sigh, in every quiet snort.
Sometimes you see the leader bolt into action, scattering bold intruders.
In his rushes — anger and strength.
In his heavy breathing — the threat of death.
You watch from afar, clenching a secret yearning to be like him one day.
Life seems simple.
Grass underfoot. Herd nearby. Wind in your mane.
What could be more important?
But one day… the scent changes.
Cold glides into the air.
Dry grass crunches under hooves.
And in the silence, at the heart of the steppe, you feel for the first time —
something is ending.
---
Winter does not come all at once.
First — a smell.
Harsh, icy, scraping your lungs.
Then — the wind. It sharpens, grows hungry, as if seeking to snatch the unwary away.
And you understand: the warmth you thought eternal, the grass you walked upon — all of it is leaving.
Your hooves slip over frozen ground.
Water hardens into glassy sheets.
Grass crumbles like ancient bone beneath your teeth.
The herd changes.
The adults no longer relax. They are tense, wary.
They gather closer, their bodies forming a living wall against the wind.
You and the other young ones are pushed into the center — into the heart of warmth and safety.
There, it is warm.
There, you hear the thudding of hearts.
There, the scent of sweat and fur thickens the air.
You try scraping snow with your hoof, like the elders.
It is hard.
Each blow vibrates painfully through your body.
Sometimes you unearth a scrap of frozen grass — dry, brittle, but precious.
You learn to survive.
Your body changes:
your coat thickens, roughens, darkens.
Every step becomes heavier.
But every day survived becomes a victory.
Nights grow longer, winds fiercer.
You huddle against the others, clinging to shared warmth.
And in that trembling closeness, for the first time, understanding comes:
Life is no easy stroll.
Life is a fight.
And you cannot win it alone.
---
Time passes.
You grow.
Milk belongs to the past.
Your teeth tear grass with certainty, your legs no longer tremble in the wind.
You are no longer a foal — you are a young stallion.
And that changes everything.
The leader looks at you differently.
Once his eyes were filled with calm strength, protective pride.
Now they burn with irritation.
Impatience.
Anger.
You see how he watches your every movement.
How his ears twitch when you lift your head above the others.
How his breathing grows heavier when you linger too long near the young mares.
He no longer needs you here.
You are a threat.
And one day, it becomes clear.
He approaches — his body tense, drawn like a bowstring.
His chest heaves.
His hooves thunder against the earth.
You do not want to fight.
You are not ready.
And when he charges, you retreat.
Quickly. Silently. With shame.
You leave.
You leave the herd you were born into.
You leave your mother.
You leave the green fields of your childhood.
Only your brother remains beside you.
The one who has been there since your first day.
The two of you together, under a gray sky, in an endless, frozen steppe.
Now the world is vast.
And you are small.
---
You walk together, you and your brother.
Two young stallions, cast away from your herd.
The steppe is vast, indifferent, endless.
You search for food, battle the wind, sleep under the open sky.
You grow used to loneliness.
To the cold.
To the silence.
Sometimes wolves pass nearby.
Their eyes gleam in the night, but you learn to understand: wolves choose the weak.
And you — you still carry strength.
One day, beyond a distant hill, you find them.
Five.
Just like you — young, strong, gathered from the cast-offs of other herds.
In their eyes — a familiar ache.
And a familiar will to survive.
You sniff each other, stomp your hooves, bump shoulders in playful tests.
No words. No agreements.
But you understand each other without them.
You are a pack.
You are a herd.
You are the royal bachelor band.
Life becomes lighter.
And livelier.
Together it is easier to find food.
Easier to fend off wolves.
Easier to survive.
Sometimes fights flare between you — flashes of teeth and hooves.
And then — calm again.
These skirmishes are not out of malice. They are training.
Learning.
You watch as the older stallions battle each other, honing strikes, learning where to bite harder, where to press stronger.
You memorize every move.
Every twist of the neck.
Every stomp of the hoof.
You grow.
Not just in body.
In spirit.
And deep inside, you know:
one day, you will have to use all of it.
---
Time flows differently in the bachelor herd.
Day after day you roam the steppe.
The pursuit of sustenance becomes your rhythm.
You search for fresh grass, sniff out streams, escape the cold, seek shelter from the wind.
Life is harsh, but you are not alone.
You are together.
And that makes you stronger.
Yet even among friends, there is order.
In the bachelor herd, hierarchy is not written in words.
It is carved by teeth and hooves.
To rise, you must challenge the one above you.
And win.
From time to time, true fights break out.
Not playful ones.
Chunks of fur fly through the air.
The earth trembles under striking hooves.
You do not yet jump into the thick of it.
You watch.
You learn.
You watch how the older stallions throw their weight, how they search for weaknesses in each other's defenses.
You memorize:
how to duck before a charge,
how to drive your shoulder into another's chest,
how to avoid direct bites to the neck.
Your body stockpiles strength.
Your hide thickens.
Your muscles harden.
And with it, something else grows.
Desire.
The desire for more.
Not just to survive.
Not just to wander aimlessly.
But to conquer.
To create your own.
And one day, when the spring sun stirs your blood and strength surges through your veins, you catch yourself thinking:
Enough of being the tail.
Enough of simply existing.
I want more.
---
A time of change arrives.
An unquenchable fire burns within you.
You feel it: the time has come to act.
With the other stallions, you journey further, deeper into the steppe, where the winds are crueler but where the chance of finding a herd worth taking grows.
And one day, you see them.
A herd of mares.
Safe. Inviting. Warm.
Their leader — an old stallion, his coat thinning, his breath heavy.
He sees you and stiffens.
Your companions exchange glances.
Someone nods toward you.
You — the strongest among them.
All eyes turn to you.
This is your chance.
You step forward.
Your hooves thunder against the earth.
Your nostrils flare with fierce excitement.
Every muscle in your body drawn tight.
And then he charges at you.
The clash is sudden.
Hooves strike with deafening force.
Teeth sink into flesh.
Pain flares in bright bursts before your eyes.
You fight with all your strength.
You strike, you bite, you shove.
You hear your friends shouting, stomping, goading you on.
But their voices are distant.
There is only you. And him.
Every second — a struggle at the edge of life and death.
Every move — a decision between victory and defeat.
But you are not fast enough.
Not experienced enough.
The old stallion knows how to strike.
Where to bite.
When to wait.
His teeth rip into your neck.
His shoulder slams you into the ground.
And you fall.
Heavy. Shameful.
You rise, battered, bleeding, breathing hard.
You have lost.
You return to your companions.
Your sides are bloodied.
Your legs tremble.
And in their eyes — sympathy.
And understanding.
It was your first true defeat.
You were so close.
But the world was not yet ready to bow before you.
And you were not yet ready to seize it.
---
Time passes.
You lick your wounds.
Scars mark your body like stories carved by life itself.
And once again, winter comes.
The cold burrows under your skin.
The wind slashes your face like a thousand tiny knives.
The grass — dry, yellowed, hidden beneath crusts of ice and snow.
You and your companions wander the steppe, always hungry, always weary.
Every day — a battle.
For a scrap of food.
For a sip of water.
For the warmth of each other's bodies.
Your coat thickens, heavy and matted.
Your body fills with strength — and pain.
Old bruises ache. New wounds open with every fight, every fall on frozen ground.
You huddle together tightly, pressing flank to flank to survive the longest nights.
You scrape snow with numb hooves, hoping to uncover pitiful tufts of frozen grass.
You live.
But you know: mere survival is not enough.
Somewhere, across the steppe, there are herds.
There are mares.
There is a life full of purpose, of belonging.
And deep under layers of cold and pain, a fire flickers anew.
A dream warms you:
One day, you will step forward again.
And next time — you will not fall.
Winter is endless.
But one day, it will end.
And you will be ready.
---
Years pass.
You are no longer the same.
Your body is a stone.
Muscles pull under your skin like drawn cables.
Your breath is deep and measured.
Your hooves carve deep marks into the earth.
You have survived countless winters.
You have fought. You have endured. You have stood firm.
You are no longer a reckless youth, rushing blindly into battles.
You have become something else.
Someone to be feared.
Someone to be respected.
And one day, fate offers you another chance.
A herd appears on the horizon.
The stallion leading them is old, his movements sluggish, his jaw slack.
He still stands — but you see it clearly:
his time is over.
You glance at your companions.
They nod.
No words, no challenges.
They know.
It is your moment.
You step forward.
Each hoofbeat echoes through your chest.
Your hooves drum the earth like war drums.
Your nostrils flare.
Your neck arches into a fierce, proud curve.
The old stallion sees you.
His ears flatten.
His tail whips the air.
Battle is inevitable.
You charge.
Your bodies collide with a muffled crash.
You twist, striking with sides, tearing at flesh with your teeth, trampling the grass and soil.
But now you know how to fight.
You know when to wait.
How to hold your ground.
And when he exposes himself — you strike.
Sharp. Precise. Ruthless.
The old leader falls.
He rises, but his strength is gone.
He looks at you — and there is no defiance in his eyes.
Only exhaustion.
Only acceptance.
He retreats.
Slowly. Heavily. Finally.
And the herd —
his herd —
now belongs to you.
You feel your blood pounding in your ears.
You feel the earth tremble under the hooves of your new family.
You are the leader.
You have achieved what you were meant to claim.
---
Becoming a leader does not grant you freedom.
It grants you burden.
Your herd — now your responsibility.
The mares look at you.
Their eyes full of hope and fear.
You no longer belong to yourself.
Every step you take, every choice you make — is for them.
You lead them to where grass still grows.
You seek out watering holes in the cracked earth.
You listen carefully through the nights, catching every rustle — what if wolves?
When danger approaches, you rise first.
Your neck arches high in warning.
Your hooves dig into the ground, your voice thunders across the steppe.
You are their shield.
You are their last bastion.
And when the pack of wolves comes hunting,
you do not retreat.
You charge forward,
strike with your hooves,
bite and roar,
scattering the grey shadows into the night.
You fight for them.
For every mare. For every foal.
Because now — this is your world.
Even when fatigue gnaws at your muscles,
when the cold seeps into your bones,
when the steppe becomes barren and merciless,
you keep going.
Because if you fall,
they fall with you.
You have become strong.
You have become a leader.
But your strength no longer belongs to you.
---
The years flow, like a river after the thaw — first rushing, then slow and heavy.
You still lead your herd.
You still stand at their front, shielding them from wind, from predators, from time itself.
You fight. You protect.
But something changes.
Your body begins to betray you.
Muscles ache after every battle.
Breathing grows heavy, as if every winter now lives in your lungs.
Your legs, once swift and strong, respond slowly to instinct's call.
And you see.
You feel.
The young stallions who grew up in your herd —
they look at you differently.
Their gazes are sharp.
Their necks held high.
Their muscles taut with challenge.
They remind you of yourself —
long ago, when you once challenged a leader who had been a shield and a mountain.
When you had been the one surging forward.
And you know:
their time is coming.
Yours — is passing.
You still hold on.
You gather every ounce of will, every spark of anger, every last ember of your fire.
But deep inside you understand:
there are no eternal victors here.
Only those who fought longer than others.
---
And then, the last fight comes.
You stand across from a young stallion.
His coat gleams under the cold sun.
His muscles are swollen with blood and defiance.
His hooves stamp the earth impatiently.
He is ready.
And you are ready.
But your strengths are no longer equal.
You charge first, as always.
Hooves striking the ground.
Teeth searching for flesh.
You fight as you once did in your youth.
As when you first began.
But your strikes are slower.
Your movements heavier.
He dodges faster, strikes harder, bites deeper.
One blow — you hold firm.
Another — you bend.
The third — you fall.
The earth greets you harshly and coldly.
You feel strength draining from your limbs, the steppe humming in your ears with hollow emptiness.
You try to rise.
But it is no use.
You have lost.
The mares follow the new leader.
Without looking back.
You remain behind.
Alone.
You watch them go.
Not with hatred.
Not with bitterness.
But with understanding.
Such is the law of the steppe.
Such is the law of life.
You rise to trembling legs.
Alone.
And you walk away.
Into the endlessness of the steppe.
Where the wind knows your name — but no longer calls you home.
---
The steppe is silent.
You are alone.
No herd.
No one to fight for.
No one to look at you with awe or fear.
Only the wind.
It knocks in your ears, worms under your coat, chills your bones.
It reminds you: you are no longer needed.
Needed by no one but yourself.
You wander the same plains where you once ruled.
Your steps are slow.
Your muscles weak.
You know every hill, every stream, every track.
But the earth no longer answers you with joy.
You scrape for food beneath the snow.
Your hooves claw at the frozen ground.
Sometimes you find a few brittle stalks of grass — dry, tasteless.
But even they are treasures now.
Your fat reserves are nearly gone.
Your coat, once thick and shining, is now dull, clumped into matted patches.
Your breathing grows heavier each day.
And still you walk.
Step by step.
Forward.
As long as your legs will hold.
As long as your heart still beats.
No one is beside you.
No one leads you.
No one waits for you.
Only the endless white steppe.
And an old soul in a worn-out body.
---
One evening, frozen and numb, you see them.
Shadows.
Gray, sliding between snowy drifts.
Hungry eyes glittering in the twilight.
Wolves.
You recognize one of them.
An old scar crosses his muzzle — the mark of a battle long past.
You remember.
You once drove him away, fought him off.
You once were stronger.
Now he has returned.
And he is not alone.
There are many.
More than you can count.
You freeze.
The cold scorches your lungs.
Your heart pounds heavily.
You know.
This time, it is different.
But you do not retreat.
You stand.
You remember every battle, every winter, every herd you protected.
You remember the warmth of your mother's body, your first mouthful of milk, the taste of your first grass, the thundering hooves of the herd.
You remember who you are.
One last surge.
You lift your head high.
Strike your hoof into the snow.
And charge — straight toward those who have come for you.
The winds wail.
The steppe is mute.
The world holds its breath.
And somewhere out there, among snow and blood, among wolf fangs and torn earth, your journey ends.
Not in fear.
Not in flight.
But in battle.
Until the very last beat of your heart.