Halcyon
Halcyon had spent some time on the Crossing now, re-acclimating herself to the passing of seasons. She'd lived on Atlantis for so long in perpetual paradise that it was strange to watch the trees shed their leaves, to see the grasses turning brittle and brown, and to feel snow across her back again as she hadn't done since she was a young girl, growing up in the Cove. It felt surreal in a way, like she wasn't quite sure it was real or that she was fully here.
That uneasy feeling, of being here and yet not kept her to the edges of the Commons, not wanting to risk triggering another episode. The last time she'd come here, it had not been as an unwanted castaway, but as a queen-to-be trying to convince other mares to come home with her to the Shore. Now, little of her once-regal bearing remained, just an oversized, loudly painted mouse to trawl the borders.
And yet she did not go unnoticed. The massive stallion (taller than her even, which was a feat in itself) did not hide his interest and she drew to a stop beneath his gaze, her heart hammering inside of her chest with a queer mix of self-loathing and excitement. Fritjof. Fritjof. Fritjof. Her head screamed his name, each repetition growing louder and more strained, and still she ignored it. Fritjof was gone, and by some cruel twist of fate, she was not. She could not hide in the shadows any longer, praying her lover would come home.
The stallion's question gives her pause and she hesitates, not certain how to answer. She wasn't searching for anything, save for something to hold her back to this earth, to chase away the spells where the clouds rolled into her mind and chased away her memories and consciousness. The blank days where she did not know what happened, or where, or when, or with whom. "I suppose so," she finally murmured, her posture still tense and separate from Voyager.
The sound of other hoofbeats had her gaze rising to the other stallion - somehow even taller than Voyager - and her eyes widening in shock. Recognition was slow to come to her, but it wafted over her in waves, layering the memory into place piece by piece. The warmth of the Shore sun on her back, the smell of salt in the air, the lingering taste of beach grass. The murmur of his kind voice, the sorrowful frown he'd worn, the gentleness he'd offered her. "I remember you." She spoke without thinking, her brow furrowed.
Atticus' question hung heavily in the air, and Halcyon found herself reduced to silence, her gaze breaking between the two of them in confusion. She could hardly call the golden stallion familiar - they'd shared a passing acquaintance in a home neither of them owned anymore - but she couldn't deny that a part of her desperately wanted to cling to even that small shred of familiarity. He'd been kind to her, from what she could remember. Gentle and sweet and forgiving of her strange mental state.
She had no guarantee Voyager would offer the same, but assuming he would not was unfair. And so she waited for his answer as Atticus did, her limpid green-gold eyes sweeping from the golden stallion to the black and back again.