Dexter
They seemed to stand there for hours.
Dexter had looked back to find Macabre joining him where he stood, pressing her wet hide against his; it was there that they stood for a small eternity, staring into the thick trees that stood so stoically before them as if they were above such worldly problems as the death of a child. Dexter glared into their depths, calmly hating them for their neutrality, quietly envious of their indifference.
Macabre’s voice broke the silence. Dexter thought about her words but did not respond. He thought about them as he began to step forward into the shade of the trees, urging Macabre to follow and beckoning Quinn with a flick of his tail. They would need water if they were to stay here for any length of time. The sound of waves faded as he traveled deeper, until he could begin to hear the soft rushing of river water.
”Stay close,” he said over his shoulder; he was not afraid of this territory’s stallion, but things would be easier if they were not separated.
He did not have to travel far. The waves were still faintly audible when Dexter stood at the bank of a narrow river, deep and dark as it slithered between shallow cliffs of earth. The sooty stallion stepped gingerly down into its chilly current and turned to face the way he had come. He stood silently for a while before dipping his head and taking a moment to drink. Still he thought about Macabre’s words.
”Do you want him to find you?” he asked finally.
