He had thought the pain would begin to ebb as soon as his hooves touched land – as if the place where he’d been born was capable of granting miracles, as if he were capable of being healed so easily. But no. Instead, another ache bloomed into existence, this one smaller and less crippling. It was bittersweet, being back. Scattered before him were all the places he’d grown up exploring, scattered like jewels in the sea. But there were no horses here that he loved anymore. Of this he was certain.

The ocean was left behind as he made his way inland, moving as if he were heavily burdened (and oh, he was – to a great extent, though few would ever be able to understand why). His silver mane was dull, his dark body thin, and the eye that could see was blank, distant, pained. He froze where he stood suddenly, peered into the shadows. His single ear quivered, and he trembled. There were figures in the dark, watching, always watching. He knew their names still, and who they had been to him, even though their faces had long since faded from memory. Distorted, alluring voices still reached out to him in sleep, some nights, and never entirely left him. Slenderman, Candyman, Gloryhound, and some nights, even The Wolf. How true the voices were to the real thing, Balthazar couldn’t be sure, but they were enough. He would never be free of any of them.

He sensed movement and without waiting to find out what it had been, he fled, fearing it was one of his phantoms come to dig its claws in even deeper. Instinct took over, and he was a colt again, afraid, so afraid. And he went to the only place he believed he would be safe.

It was not the desert he bolted for. Aside from being altogether too far for him to go in his current state, the desert would only stir up memories and blood and bones that were best left buried in the sand. And neither did he go to the Green Room – a strange and hidden thicket that had belonged to them (he and his bright star). Living without Izarra was hard enough, and to go to their place, and find himself alone (with no Izarra, and no Asta, neither of his stars, his loves) would only make his heart bleed. No, he went to the only place he felt safe, pushing aside the fact that he would not be welcomed there, because he did not belong.

He was an unbelonger, with nothing, and no-one.

All he had were memories – ones that haunted him, and ones that didn’t.

The terror began to fade as soon as he caught sight of the Peak, looming up out of the earth, and it was like seeing it with young eyes again. In his turbulent childhood, the Peak had always been what had grounded him. When his brother had been killed and he’d only been spared to send a message, it was here that he had ended up, on his last legs. And it was here that he had found one who would become a light in his dark and troubled life – a light that would always guide him and never go out.

“Corinth,” he breathed, and pulled up short, as if the sound of her name had torn the very terror from his breast. The mountain loomed above, unchanged. Weathered by storms, by nature and by time. Unlike Balthazar, the Peak looked no worse – it had taken its beating well. The same could not be said for him, though. The stallion had always been weak and wounded.

Time hadn’t changed that.

Half-blind, half-deaf and missing his good ear, skinny and sad and starved of love Balthazar was a sorrier sight than he had ever been before. He stared at the mountain’s face with a desperate longing. If he had been any other, he would have gone and searched, despite the fact that he knew the ground here was sacred in a way. But he was a coward, and drew even further back from the border, not wanting to step on toes, because he was falling apart and it wouldn’t take much for anyone with reason enough to attack in order to snuff him out.

But he was tied to the mount in ways only one would understand, and she would not be here anymore. He couldn’t leave, not yet. A peace stole over him, and the flutter of apprehension that danced incessantly inside him these days, slowed, paused every now and again.

He would be safe here, his heart told him. (He tried to remember her eyes, her face, and it hurt when he couldn’t.) He would slip away before sunrise, and maybe someday he would come back. Maybe not.

The air smelled of earth and stone.

Balthazar closed his eyes, and imagined that she was speaking to him, on that very first night they had met. He had been good then, broken, certainly, but unblemished. He was so much darker now, and no water would be able to wash him clean. If only he could be forgiven, by her, by someone, by anyone. Maybe then he could begin to hope again.

Maybe then he might feel the sunlight on his skin, and forgive himself.

Only then could he begin to heal.