Siobhan is not sure she has any emotion left to give. Watching Bjorn swim away from her had sapped everything that she had left, and now all that remained was a tear-stained husk that housed who she used to be.

For hours, Siobhan had screamed into the sand. She had torn at the beach with her hooves and hurled curses at the stallion that had abandoned her twice now, but none of it lessened the pain. Bjorn had made his choices, and she hers. They would have to lay in the bed that they had made, no matter how uncomfortable they became.

There was nothing that she could do now to regain that half of her heart, but in the grim gray light of the earliest dawn, she remembered that Bjorn was not her whole heart. Not anymore, and not ever again. She had given what was left of herself to Ailill, dumped the poor sodden mess of her soul into his hands with blind trust, and he'd not let her down. And he'd cradled those remains and nursed her back to some semblance of a person again.

And she loved him for it.

She loved him for the way that he looked at her, and for the way that he made her flush like a young filly. She loved him for the way he took care of the girls, always patient and gentle with their youthful antics. She loved him for the way that he didn't shy from Roisin because of her father, nor treated Akadi any differently for her parentage. She loved him for the respect that he gave her, even when she didn't ask him for it. For the way he carried himself honorably, and the way he spoke of peace with Faolain and his dreams for a unified herd once more. For the way he'd touched her when they had come together, at last.

She loved Ailill in a million small ways that it amounted to something so much bigger than their sum. But their love was so different from the love that she'd held for Bjorn. She'd blindly trusted the grullo, had believed in him even before she'd seen evidence to make it a sound investment. She'd loved him for the man she knew him to be.

But it had not been enough. Not for him. And now, not for her either.

The speckled mare made her way numbly up the self-same trail she had come down from earlier when lack of sleep had made her restless. She paused for a long moment at the edge of the clearing, just to watch her girls sleep. No matter what happened, Siobhan knew that they were her rocks. Her purpose in this life. She wasn't here to love or be loved, she was put here to be a mother for them. To make their lives better in every way that she could.

Eventually, she turns her gaze to Ailill, his handsome figure peaceful in the grip of sleep. It is fitting, she thinks, that he is made of light and gold to match his goodness, while Bjorn was made of soot and ebony. The strong lines of his figure, made lithe with his propensity to dance, promise the strength to protect her. She remembers him telling of his dance with the dark queen of the Ridge, and how her jealousy had surprised her, even though she had known it to be chaste. The thought of it at the time had been so clear in her head, her imagination eagerly supplying how warm and strong he would be next to her, how he might touch her to direct her feet so that they may fall into a rhythm of their own. He had told her it brought him peace, as if it was a form of meditation.

And if there was anything she needed now, it was some inner peace.

She moves forward quietly against his side, brushing her charcoal muzzle along the slope of his shoulder gently to wake him. Siobhan soothes herself with the familiar scent of him, and the comfort that he is to her. Her voice is little more than a croak, roughened with tears and screaming of hours past, and she keeps it low to not wake the girls. "Ailill, love."

Her amber eyes rise to search his, and a small tired smile attempts to life the edges of her lips. "Come dance with me, please."