Over oceans, all emotions, I feel trapped under the weight
Can’t keep my head above water long enough to say
That I love and miss you dearly more and more after each day

Hoofbeats against stone.

Midas climbed steadily upward his hooves cautiously choosing the best footing on the narrow pass. It was late morning. The birds sang their final songs as Apollo’s chariot careened higher into the flushed blue sky. The morning mist had evaporated but the chill of autumn lingered heavily around him. All around aspen trees were beginning to shed their leaves in preparation for the long winter. The foliage on the ground reminded Midas of himself - old and past their prime.

He continued onward. His wary golden eyes peered from beneath heavy lashes. His feet carried him ever closer to his destination.

The Peak. Midas dreaded the place. He had one memory of a not-so-pleasant run-in with some Peak mares which had culminated in a confrontation at their stony home. But that had been in in his younger years when images of grandeur and strength had clouded his better judgement. Midas wasn’t nearly so petty or power-hungry now. Oh how the mighty fall. Now he was nothing but a shadow of his former self, a living memory.

Midas stumbled on some pebbles underfoot. They cracked and rolled off the edge of the path and down the steep mountainside. Midas froze before his body moved almost trance-like to the edge and his gaze drifted down toward the spiky treetops below. In that moment he considered flinging himself off the pass and into the weightless expanse. ”Isn’t that why we came back? To die?” That sickly voice crept back into his head. It filled his ears and clouded his vision. He teetered on the edge, feeling dizzy. His nostrils opened widely as he desperately shut his eyes. “Be brave Midas, for once in your goddamn life be brave!” It urged him forward, he could feel it pull the very fiber of his being towards the edge. How much easier would it be, to end it all now? No one would miss him, no one would care. He could end it and everyone would be better off. He had resolved to die but part of him still wanted to live. “Not here,” he muttered and shook his head as he weakly stumbled backward. ”COWARD!” It screamed in fury as he disobeyed.

Midas tossed his golden head again, trying to drown out the voice screaming inside him. “Leave me alone!” He snarled as he clamped his teeth together in anger and defiance. “Leave me alone.” He croaks again, his voice turning to a whimper of despair. Tears form in his golden eyes before they’re hurriedly blinked away. He stood there in silence until the voice was gone and the sickness passed, then he carried onward up the mountain path.

The sun shone brilliantly against his coat. It was close to noon now. He had come to the Peak not for Rowena, but for Macabre. Midas had been in love with Macabre once long ago. He hadn’t minded that she was small, that she was mousey and quiet or plain. He remembered that night with her by the ocean in the caves at the Quarry like it was yesterday. He had told Rowena the Ridge was where they had been family - which had been true in his mind. Macabre had come to the Ridge just before he abandoned it - and from that moment Midas had considered her part of his family again, even if she had just thought she was passing through. The moments Midas and Macabre had shared on the Quarry had become almost sacred to the stallion. He remembered them as a time when his life made sense, when the world was at his fingertips. He remembered her warm breath against his skin and the rush she had given him. It wasn’t a memory he cared to share - with anyone - let alone Rowena who was barely more than an acquaintance.

There had been a problem back then between Midas and all his other mares - that problem had been Sylvia. Midas had been obsessed with her - he had always been fascinated by shiny treasures and trinkets and Sylvia, with her perlino coat and girlish charms easily captivated his imagination. She had always been much more of a child than Macabre, and she made it clear that she needed him. And that had made Midas feel like he was enough, like he was good, and special. Back then he needed someone to chose him, he needed someone to save. She had been very insecure and sheltered and she had demanded constant affirmation which Midas graciously agreed to do. But she had never understood Midas. She had come from a happy home, and had been the light to all his darkness. Midas had liked that - distraction was always his drug of choice. But in many ways their relationship was toxic. It isolated the two of them and Midas remembers vividly she had been jealous that day Macabre had shown up on the Ridge and asked for shelter. Midas had never known had to handle Sylvia beyond sweet nothings and affirmations. He wasn’t the right man for Sylvia, he wasn’t the right man for anyone.

In contrast to Sylvia, Macabre had always been strong and asked for very little. It was hard for Midas to show that sort of mare how he cared - and he supposed in the case of Macabre, he had failed.

Two seasons have passed since their visit to the Ridge. Finally Midas swallowed his pride and decided to find her at the Peak. Honestly, those months hadn’t been pleasant for Midas. Alternating between survival and wrestling with his inner demons, he could feel the fatigue catching up to him. He was tired of fighting. The scars littering his coat were only a fraction of the ones inside his mind. The war waged on constantly behind his golden eyes and no one could help him fight it. He was outnumbered and tired - so tired. One day soon he would lose that inner battle - just as his mother had - just as her father had - it was was the fates’ design.

But Midas had decided he can’t surrender yet. He wanted to tie up loose ends first. He had to apologize to Macabre, he had to make sure she was okay, that she would continue to be okay - even though he knew it wasn’t his place to ask.

As for the rest of it, or rather, for the end of it, he had a plan - but he’d save it for another day. Midas reached a stretch of flat plateau. A few sparse patches of grass littered the cracked earth. Boulders rose up on two sides and a path to the very top of the mountain curved steeply upward to his right. He stopped deciding this was as good of a place as any other. He rolled back his chocolate lips and released a call out into the wind - calling for Macabre.

It was time for a tough conversation.