"If Love himself weep, shall not lovers weep,
learning from what sad cause he pours his tears?
Love hears his ladies crying their distress,
showing forth bitter sorrow through their eyes
because villainous Death has worked its cruel
destructive art upon a gentle heart,
and laid waste all that earth can find to praise
in a gracious lady, save her chastity."

There was something about the dark haze within the woods that comforted Macabre. Any other day it would have made her uneasy, alert and flighty. Similar to her feelings for the ocean, there was a certain unknown that came with the thicket and it haunted her. It reminded her of the days spent wandering in the wake of the great flood, alone and grief-ridden by the loss of her parents and the only home she'd ever known. Like the ocean, the woods brought her little in terms of hope. Within the confines of trees and shrubs she'd meet man after man, ones who promised her a home and love and comfort, but would only end up hurting her. But she did not falter when Dexter moved toward it, obediently following in his footsteps as they passed into the wooded terrain.

The mare remained quiet, delicately traveling over roots and fallen branches behind Dexter. The small colt would sometimes appear by her side, but she refrained from looking at him, fearing his tender face would bring her into another downward spiral. For a moment, she remembers the scent of a woman on Dexter's coat, the perfume strong on his hide back when they were in the Crossing, prior to being washed clean by their swim. Macabre locks the memory away for later, curious if there was someone else in the stallion's life. Perhaps the mother of the colt that was with them.

Macabre stands idly at the bank of the river, looking down at the mud in which her hooves sank. She stared for a long time, watching the sediment as it mixed with the hairs along her coronet band at the base of her hoof, before finally lowering her head to take a drink. She was hungry, but too exhausted to graze. She was unsure of every move she made and she still questioned her motives to have followed Dexter this far. If Dogun were to find her now, he'd likely dismiss her completely, leaving her homeless all over again. All the mare wanted to do was lay down somewhere alone and sleep. Then sleep some more. She wanted to sleep for days, weeks, months. Maybe never wake up again at all.

Remnants of her drink grew heavy along her whiskered maw, pooling at its bottom-most point before dripping back into the depths from which it came. When Dexter speaks, her marbled gaze leaves that of the currents of the stream to lock onto him. It is the first time she'd stared directly at him during this whole debacle. She considers his words, but doesn't answer, instead, looking to the colt nearby. "What's his name?" She asks, her legs shaking slightly under her weight. "He looks hungry."