A/N: Constructive criticism requested.
Horses march across the top of her walls, canter down her blankets and toss their manes along her shelves. They fill her room and her imagination, surround her waking and enter her dreams when she sleeps.
Her mother says that all little girls go through this phase, but it has been three years and Sarie shows no signs of growing out of it. She is still as thrilled by their effortless grace and liquid eyes as she was when the Arabians cantered past her on Epona.
Sarie does not want to ride, nor does she want a pony, much to her Uncle Mal's relief. She has no interest in the reality of horses, really. It is the dream of them, the elusive thunder of hooves that echoes her heartbeat, the soft press of a muzzle against her palm.
River understands this, the illusions that her little niece cherishes. Real horses are not soft and graceful and sweetly forgiving. Real horses are noisy, smelly, occasionally vicious, rarely sweet, much like humanity. The dreams that dance in Sarie's head are only that, dreams.
River has given up on dreams.