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he who fears losing has already lost
Posted on March 31, 2013 at 10:19:03 PM by S O L G A R

"The man who fears losing has already lost."
-George R. R. Martin

This is it.

Perched on the rocky slopes of the mountain that overlooks the inlet where he can see most everything below, Solgar watches them. They are a distance away, but even so, he would know that pale silhouette anywhere. Volpe had been burned into his memory since their last meeting, after all. Even from here, he can see how angular the mare still is: how stark and out-of-place she seems. She does not belong here; she is not built for the cold. If the answer wasn't staring him plain in the face, Solgar might wonder why she had bothered coming back at all.

The foal is golden, not unlike the shade of Volpe's mane and tail, but its points are dark, dark, dark. Like him. He hasn't a doubt in his mind that the child is theirs, the one Volpe had told him about before fleeing into the sea and out of his life. He hadn't stopped her that day, and to be honest, he isn't sure it would have made a different if he had.

In the blueish half-light of the cool summer morning, Solgar watches them, and waits as if for a sign. He feels disturbed at how little he cares. He feels as cold and stony as the slope he stands on. There is only a single thought ebbing and throbbing like a bad headache through his brain: why did I have to screw her? He just wants to be alone, with his brother and his son and possibly Neassa too. He is tired of this. He was never made for the herd life.

They disappear into the trees soon enough, and he attempts to pull himself from his thoughts. He must decide what to do. His choice is robbed of him, however, when he sees a flash of gold, red, and white in the trees, moving in the same direction that Volpe and the buckskin foal had. Solgar's ears flick back atop his head, and he curses under his breath. Winter had become even more crass and reclusive as of late; her presence was the last thing the flighty Volpe needed. Time to put things right, you old worm, he thinks to himself as he presses his lips tightly together and begins to hobble awkwardly down the rocky slope to intercept them.

Once on flat ground, he makes straight for the trees at a brisk walk, limping all the while. It doesn't take too long to find them; apparently Volpe had decided to allow herself and her foal to be found. He can see her white body shining like a beacon between the gaps of the dark, rough bark of the trees, and makes straight for it, though not before hearing the high-pitched voice of Winter's daughter cutting through the silence. His step falters, and he cringes. Still he can hardly believe Panthere is his, but that's an issue for another time.

With branches swaying and twigs snapping beneath his hooves, he knows they will have heard him; it is too late too turn back now. He hardly spares his alpha mare and the red filly a glance as he encroaches on the group, squeezing through the trees with a grunt. "Leave us," he commands Winter in a terse voice, his ears pinned and his eyes focused on the distinct amber gaze of Volpe.

He isn't taking any chances; he won't have a repeat of last time.

S O L G A R
11; mustang; blue roan; 15'3hh; inlet; shiva



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