Though the blazing hues of autumn are vibrant in comparison to the monochromatic hues to which she has become accustomed, they do not lift her spirits. Fleete would sooner languish in the Cove's frigid desolation, for the Forest's vivid flames contain a world of unwelcome memories. Each sigh of the wind in the trees whispers her name in his voice, and the shafts of light that penetrate the dense canopy overhead form a scattering of dapples in the loam that are reminiscent of his spotted hide. Treading meekly in the wake of her new captor, Fleete might be returning to her past, shedding the last bitter years of her life - save for the knowledge that haunts her hollow, hazel eyes.

She had seen the distant, painted figure of her daughter watching the waves swallow her. Lyonesse had been so close that a handful of strides would have carried Fleete to her side - close enough for her dam to glimpse the pain that had hardened her. The disheveled appearance of her black-and-white coat, the gaunt planes of her figure, the ashen defeat that had smothered her glorious, defiant fire - these things were all too familiar. And Fleete knew, in the instant their eyes had met, what Lyonesse had suffered. Had she not been a victim of such brutality herself? And now her daughter, her beloved daughter, has been defiled in the same way.

Blunt though they might be, she could tear the bastard's throat out with her own teeth.

As the shadows lengthen with the impending dusk, however, the fawn-colored mare's strength begins to falter, her will crumbling as they pause beneath an ancient behemoth of a tree. Momentarily unaware of her audience - the red man and a nearby grulla woman - Fleete's muzzle reaches out to caress the rough bark, her hazel eyes falling closed as single tear escapes them. This place had once been his domain - yet even here, Bondurant is little more than a distant whisper of memory. Details of his appearance have begun to trickle from her mind like grains of sand in an hourglass. It is a comfort to think that she might someday be able to release the memory of the man she had loved.

If only the trees did not speak with his voice.

This is the forest, his velvet tones echoed across the gulf of years, as Fleete's soft voice seeks to drown it. "I don't know your name," she states listlessly to the Forest's new lord, and though her body does not turn to face him, her ears do.



mare .. 6 years .. rabicano chestnut pearl .. akhal-teke x andalusian .. 16 hands

fleete