Common

“Idiot,” he swears, striding along the length of the beach.

The early Autumn air slides around the stallion’s muscled form, dragging its cool fingers down his skin. He shivers; the sea spray chills him further, dampening the warmth of the afternoon sun upon his back. It’s been such a long time since both sides of him have felt the push of the wind, so long since he’s had to go without the two golden entities he knew as family, and worst of all, it wasn’t even his choice. If Larkspur had his druthers, Jaskier and Hyacinth would be here with him - bold, loud, probably arguing, but here. They could have been, if he’d tried. If he’d done literally anything to stop the three of them from being torn apart.

Foolish colt, he chides himself, champing his teeth. His pale ears pin back, slipping beneath the shining platinum threads of his mane. Why didn’t you do something?

He couldn’t explain it. Coming back to the Lost Islands had seemed like a good idea weeks ago, back on the mainland, when they’d all been bored and restless and out of other distractions. He’d mentioned it offhand - We could go back, he’d said, check out my old stomping grounds - and like a moth to a flame the three of them gathered around the idea, entranced, and nursed it into a full-fledged plan. He grimaces at his own brash confidence. It’ll be fun, he’d said.

The fun part of their adventure ended about ten minutes into their swim. The closer they got to the acclaimed archipelago, the more subdued the pearly man became, and by the time they made landfall he was in another place entirely. It felt like he’d been transported directly to his past, but instead of some leggy half-grown he was a full-fledged stallion with the power to make his own destiny. Larkspur stared at the distant silhouettes of the Islands scattered along the coast, swallowed by images of the souls he’d left behind - and the souls who’d left him in turn.

Jaskier’s voice fills his ears, but he can’t hear it over the roaring of the surf. Hyacinth soon joins in; they bicker around him, then take their fight to the water, and by the time he comes back to the present he’s alone, truly, for the first time since he can remember, with only the sound of the waves lapping upon the sand and his own breathing for company.

His search hadn’t been completely fruitless. Larkspur came across traces of the sunlit duo: strands of mane here, a faded scent there, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t discern their whereabouts. Summer became autumn, and with the upswell of hormones floating around like cottonwood seeds he felt more and more on edge, and their absence grated more harshly on his psyche. Growing desperate, he’d retraced his steps, going over the areas where he’d first found evidence with a fine-toothed comb. The original clues had long since been absorbed into the loam, worn by decay and time’s gently-sloughing hands - but maybe, if he left signs for them, they would know he was still here. Still looking.

Larkspur comes to a halt, his tiger-striped form pointed towards the distant silhouette of Atlantis. He was considering another swim - perhaps they’d gotten tired of waiting and moved along without him? - when the sound of movement pulled his ears back inland. His head soon follows, but when he scans the banks, he sees nothing. “Hyacinth?” he calls, his voice only a little bit suspicious.

No answer.

Larkspur calls again, switching tacks. “Jaskier?”

He takes a step forward, unsure if he’s been discovered by the very thing he seeks - or if he’s fallen, however unknowingly, into some sort of trap.