She had foolishly imagined something else, hadn’t she? She had girlishly lost herself to hopeful aspirations of lovelorn embraces, tied and twisted together like old, dear acquaintances. She imagined old flames refurbished and stoked, the embers whispered into roaring infernos. She expected many things, just not this.

No, instead he simply stared.

Her heart – her own expectations fell with a clatter, pieces jarred loose and wretched free. She watched, her brows furrowing in a manner that spoke disappointment. Her heart throttled against its cage, brewed and steeped in quiet fury. Of course, this was deprecation. This is what you call self-loathing. Her face parted its gaze from him, turning away to consider how foolish she may have looked.

Silly girl, oh you stupid old woman!

A dark thought, but an honest one.

An exhale slipped from her, pushed – as though this act would force the pain from her heart, from her soul. This, as though the cold air of the Isle would fill her with bile; that it may make thick her confidence. And my, timid, small Anske was never known to be quite confident. She trembled some, and considered the whole of her parts. She must have greyed since they’d last met, her features probably had grown long – and he, my, he was a stallion and they were known for their immortality. They were known for the long reach of their virulence. She did not need to ask to know of how many oats he’d sowed.

He was a stallion – they did as instinct bade, and Reszo was certainly not the last of his progeny.

She forced humor to brighten her eyes, she forced her voice to throw light, airy and sweet: “How silly of me.” She is wordless. She is useless. Fraught, she searched her mind for words, any words. She sought desperately for an explanation, something that would wash this black mark from her. A joke, anything – and with her lips twisting in a humble – and yet remarkably sorrowful smile – she managed something, a half-truth. No, it was a white lie. “I thought you were someone else.”