Duty

At dawn, Lyet came out of the forest from the winter camp and readied the stables, setting the warming stones and hanging thick wool panels to insulate the walls. She had been there every year of her adult life thus far (as had someone in her family back untold generations); Lyet worked quickly, lighting the fire to warm the massive cauldron of rich mash (a scramble of sweet leaves, potato, a bit of apple, and egg) - enough to satisfy the entire team. And down they came, landing firmly then walking slowly (in their exhaustion), letting Lyet remove the bits and bridles; she took them one-by-one into their resting places, coaxed them to eat and applied oils and salves where needed. She helped them to rest with acupuncture and a valerian tincture rubbed onto the inside of the lips. Dasher was the first and oldest, but let the others go before him. "This leg," she whispered with sadness, getting ready to treat the soft tissue around the hoof and wrap it. "I know," his eyes said proudly, and Lyet leaned against him. "You accept their love for you as part of the work - payment for the duty," she whispered, "but I wonder if you can guess at the depth of it. I do not think you can." As he slept, Lyet moved her hammock to his stall and stayed near (ready if she could help or comfort them in any way).