The tall white-gold stallion sulks in the deep corners of Paradise. In the time since their last explosive encounter, Ender has left Atlantis, found no solace in the arms of anyone else (though struggle to find a welcome embrace he did not) and returned to his humid home. He doesn’t even remember what the fight had been about, but whatever it was had stung him deeply, and he had slipped away to avoid his Queen and wallow.

There is no comfort to be found, he has discovered, in the attentions of others. His brief trip to the Crossing had been eye-opening in a few ways, but overall unsatisfactory, and in fact had left Ender feeling more empty than when he had set out. He is not exactly prone to bouts of empathy, but he could not help but envision a reversal of roles: Fríða seeking out affection from someone other than himself. It had twisted the knife, even though at the time he had not even known about her endeavor with her Lagoon captive. Such knowledge had probably been the object to shove all memory of their last spat out of his head, and taken its place entirely.

So, he sulks. He had not quite gone so far with any other mare (or stallion) on the Crossing to keep their scents on his skin beyond the swim back home, and the adventure has been largely forgotten by the time he hears Fríða’s scream through the jungle. His heart skips a beat, before setting off at a frantic gallop. Ender’s tarnished-gold head jerks from its lazy, low-hanging position, his ears coming forward through his mane in alarm. He had not imagined that scream.

Several worst-case scenarios begin to reel through Ender’s panicking mind as he takes off in the direction of the sound. If something happened to Fríða, their last moments together would have been a petty argument, if you don’t count the days of avoidance and wallowing. Ender hates the fear that courses through him, spurring him forward even into the dangerous silence, even as his nose is assaulted by the musky odor of cat and the bitter tang of Fríða’s blood. He hates that his own happiness in the forseeable future hinges on another person, and one that he has not even bothered to enjoy for the past doesn’t-matter-how-long. Idiot, he curses himself, in equal measures for actually loving someone other than himself and also for the fact that he might be galloping head-first into a predator’s grasp.

“Fríða!” he shouts, spotting blood in increasing volume upon the leaves of the undergrowth and the earth as he runs. “So help me, if you let that cat kill you, I will bring you back and kill you myself,” he barks, and then he sees her tail flagging ahead of him. The brilliant white of it as it flashes out of view again makes his heart stumble, but luckily his hooves are steadier and he does not slow, but instead surges forward to catch up. He has no care for the cat behind them, for now he realizes that she is not being openly pursued or wrestled to the ground, but is running out of panic. “Fríða!” he shouts again. “Slow down!”

guilt consumes us slow