Desert

Titania had been so sure of her life's path, once. It revealed itself to her in dreams: a storm, powerful and violent, sweeping her out to sea; a shore, bordered with tangles of thorns and brambles; and a savior, cloaked in shadow and bringing her peace. She'd found her little slice of heaven, her dreamwalker, her Moon and the Thicket where the eyes of the birch grove stood sentry, and she was sure that this was where she was meant to be. This was her destiny, to live the rest of her days on Luthien, blissful and surrounded by the love of her mate and the children borne from their honey-sweet bond.

And it was true, at first. She had it all - and then chaos came to her, green-eyed and silver-haired, greedily snatching away everything she'd thought she'd have in an instant and sending her in an entirely different direction. The maelstrom of Rougaru's influence upon her was something so wild, so unpredictable, she never could have foreseen what would come next. Every turn revealed some new terror, every twist another scar upon her once-unblemished soul. As he dragged her with him down into the depths of despair, she strayed farther and farther from Rille's calming, gentle light, and felt the fires of mischief inherent in her fae blood burning hotter and hotter. Her herd on the mainland had always been proud; they'd protected each other, and any slights against them were paid back in kind, with a little extra as both warning and reminder.

After six years of constant togetherness, of tight-knit family bonds and security and happiness, to go to something so fragmented, so isolating - it changed her. The bonds were what held her psyche in one recognizable piece. One by one, they were severed: first Rille, then Cressida, then Faline, and Loki, and even her sweet, innocent Rivka, all cut away from her with blunt tools and scattered while she was left to fester and rot from the inside out in Paradise. Did her jailers care? Not one bit, as long as her pretty outer shell remained intact.

The problem with that, it turned out, was that eventually there was no more goodness in her for the maggots to consume - and without the pressure of the wolf-king and his bride to hold her together, it was only a matter of time before it burst from the bloated corpse of her body, burning like acid onto whatever poor creatures happened to be nearby.

Vanya had been first. For one brief, shining moment, Titania thought she could lance the darkness out of herself: spill the painted woman's blood in the Common, wash it off in the Falls, and be well on her way to healing by the time she reached the Peak. It was there, right there in front of her face - and then that goddamned storm-grey stallion stopped her, packing the wounds upon her heart with dirt and grime and marking new ones upon her inky flesh. She tried to circle back, to trail Vanya to whatever hole she'd crawled into, but it was too late. She spent a day combing the Southern coast and found no sign of her, and when the fae mare took to the sea and headed back to the Desert to regroup, saltwater stinging her many cuts, she was seething.

Salem reflects her hot temper, wicking away the moisture in her coat within an hour of her return and giving it back in sweat soon after. Compared to the Crossing, her arid home feels quiet. She makes her way inland, absentmindedly picking up the scent of the old palomino from before - and something new, two somethings, actually, fresh sets of hoofprints and a cry to follow each of them, the noise sending the smoldering flames of her anger blazing back to an inferno.

No, she thinks, shaking her head to clear it even as she picks up her pace, pursuing the sources of the disturbance. Her heart beats a staccato rhythm in her chest. It can't be.

After all this time, she thought she was safe. She thought she was free. Was it a lie? A game? Maybe Rougaru sent Vanya to flush her out of her hiding place so that when she returned, he would be here, waiting for her. It made no sense; Drogon knew where she was, he'd followed her here himself, and when he left she had assumed he was going right back home to Paradise to tattle on her. Why would they wait until now, months after her initial escape, to try and rein her in? What method of madness was the wolf-king using on her, and why did it take so long for him to come?

These questions and more run frantically across her mind faster than her legs can carry her, twisting her stomach into knots - but when she finally comes upon him, finally sees the withered husk of his mahogany body and the faded spark in his clouded emerald gaze, Titania gets her answer. He's not here for her at all.

This is, theoretically, what she wants - and yet it only incenses her further.

But he is weak, the muscles he'd once sported turned rangy, the majesty of his pale mane reduced to thin tangles. The mighty wolf-king has become a stray, nothing more than a common mongrel, and though Titania may still be bruised and battered from her fighting in the Common, she has years of youth and whitehot rage to fuel her in ways that he does not. As with Vanya, he has nothing, nothing beyond his debt to the star-streaked mare for the years of pain and torture - and as with his fallen Queen, Titania intends to make him pay it back in blood.

As she's charging in to catch him, however, something horse-shaped in her periphery draws closer. Her steps quicken, and when she slides to a stop, dust billowing in her wake, she stands between the half-starved mare and her newfound quarry, ears pinned flush against her sweat-damp poll. Titania's eyes bore into her, aiming to pin her in place without touching so much as a hair on her blood-streaked head.

"Back off, mare," she commands, using every last drop of the power she holds as Queen to steady her ragged words. "This one is mine."

The loss of Vanya had been hard enough to stomach. Even now, Titania is planning a way to get her back, unable to let her escape the consequences of her misdeeds. She will not have this chance taken from her, too, especially not in her own home, and in the arch of her neck and the hard switch of her tail against her hindquarters lies a promise of violence, swift and powerful and unending, should the unknown woman try to steal what is rightfully hers. This weakling is no match for her like the stallion from the Commons, and though Titania might not particularly want to take her life alongside Rougaru's, she will, if that's what it takes to keep him.

"Just north of here is an oasis," she says, softening her tone a touch in an attempt at redirection. "Go there, with my blessing, and when you are rested..." Titania shifts her weight, angling closer to her prize, and as her gaze shifts, locking like a magnet onto his stupid, irksome face, her voice turns biting once again.

"...you may have your turn with whatever of this scoundrel is left." If there is anything left, at least, once the fires of her rage have burned back down to ash.