Common

It is not your fault.

Kore rocks back, pressing her ears against her skull in a vain attempt to drown out the sound of his voice. She feels herself rebelling - how does he know, her petulant subconscious cries, how can he possibly - but the cold and the melancholy and the reality of her situation tamp down the sparks of her temper before they catch alight. They are strangers to each other, unknown quantities whose paths had crossed by accident, just as Libera had once been. Just as Aidoneus, or Zahhāk, or Fritjof or Maslakhat or any of the rest of them, each with their own lessons, waiting to be divulged.

When she'd first washed up on the Islands, nearly half a lifetime ago, Kore'd been glad for the storm that brought her, looking for an escape from the harsh truths of her homeland. Now, she realizes, she'd been a damned fool for thinking she could ever hope to outrun them. Karma came for her anyway, over the water and around the Islands, whispering its lessons in ways she could decipher, if only she knew the code.

In the Dunes, it pointed out her trauma-roughened edges, how they could cut even the gentlest cradling hands. In the Crossing, raising Virgo, it taught her how to level and smooth them, the shine of the polish illuminating her path to Atlantis - and finally, in the Shore, it pried off the vicegrip she held on her future, digit by digit, until she had no choice but to let go. Let go - and let the tides of fate carry her to the place she is meant to be, and the next lesson she is bound to learn.

Please don't go, says the tawny-haired stallion, and guides her towards the light.

Kore peers at him through tear-stained lashes. Her eyes find the wound at his crown, falling to the snow at their hooves at his last few words, and though she still does not quite believe it, she tries to find the truth in them. Her gasps die down to sniffles, which fade to shaky breaths, the air cutting like frozen knives down the length of her throat. She shivers; the silence fills the narrow clearing as she gathers up her courage, forcing her voice to level out and her gaze to rise once more.

"Are you..." Her question fades, eyes darting to his temples, then back again. Of course he's not okay, she scolds herself, bicolored tail swishing irritably. How is making sure of that going to help anyone?

"Can you walk?" Kore asks instead, stepping closer, ears twitching uncertainly. Another shudder seizes her. "It's-s n-not s-s-safe out here." Winter's scarcity makes predators desperate, bolder, and between her loud crashing and the blood clotting in ruby-red droplets on the ground before them, they're a couple of sitting ducks.

Xiomara's voice rings in her head, echoing much less haughtily in her own narrow throat.

"Y-y-you'll... f-f-f-freeze."