Common

Life had not been kind to Osmanthus as of late. One by one his family had left his side, scattered to the wind like so many autumn leaves. His children had grown and begun their own lives, no longer in need of their father. But the most painful absence of all was Anso's. His best friend of over a decade, his closest companion, the first and only stallion he'd ever loved... gone. There was no telling where he'd went or why, and that was perhaps the worst part of it: the not knowing.

But there was nothing to be done now. Osmanthus had left Atlantis and Luthien behind, wanting to separate himself from the ghosts of his past. But they chased him clear across the sea to where he found himself now, lurking in the depths of the Crossing isle. He found himself at the far edge of the Commons today, watching others mill about from where he stood beneath a shady copse of trees, the sun filtering through the leaves and speckling him in soft light. A warm spring breeze whispered through the canopy and the birds sang a cheerful tune from their perches.

But even their peppy melody was not enough to pull Osmanthus from his somber mood. He'd never thought himself the moping, angsty type, but it was hard not to stew over all that had gone wrong these past few years. He'd failed as a king. He'd failed as a lover. He'd failed as a father. It felt like everything he did only ended in disappointment, heartbreak, anger, and resentment - sometimes all at once. He'd tried his hand at the whole family thing, and it had become clear to him, as he watched his life fall apart, that he was not cut out for that. The only thing he'd ever been good at was battling and, on more occasions than he cared to admit, slaughtering.

Maybe it was time he embrace his bloodstained past. Osmanthus swiftly and violently rejected the thought as soon as it crawled from the recesses of his mind, but before long another has taken its place, and then another and another, until his psyche is all but consumed. What use was it? He'd tried to distance himself from it, to start fresh. As if he were worthy of a fresh start, of peace, of a family. He had enough blood on his hooves to stain a river red, and there was no amount of atonement that would undo that. He could pretend he was a good man until his dying breath, but it would not make it true.

Heaving a great sigh, Osmanthus lowered his head and lipped half-heartedly at the grass, trying and failing to distract himself as his thoughts descended ever further into darkness.