"If Love himself weep, shall not lovers weep,
learning from what sad cause he pours his tears?
Love hears his ladies crying their distress,
showing forth bitter sorrow through their eyes
because villainous Death has worked its cruel
destructive art upon a gentle heart,
and laid waste all that earth can find to praise
in a gracious lady, save her chastity."

Her stare lingered at the pool of dried blood, her own fluids staining the sands not far from the rivet of smooth sand, the imprint from where her body had lay. Macabre's head pounded against her skull, her heart beating fiercely into her ears. Months, hell maybe even years, of malnourishment had finally caught up to her. A night's rest was enough to get her on feet again, but the petite mare's body wailed with every move she made. Her joints cracked, her muscles ached in protest. She was not fit to be a mother. Macabre could hardly take care of herself. Nevertheless, instincts took over, and the mare scanned the unfamiliar terrain wildly for her child. She paid little attention to the stallion, whom was now struggling to stand as she paced back and forth around him. Her body felt hollow, a sudden void lingering in the space that once housed a budding parasite. She wondered, briefly, how long this feeling would last.

It wasn't long before the mare from the night prior emerged with Shiraz. The foal was bright eyed and moving with choppy, though energetic strides. He looked less sickly than Macabre had remembered from the night before, and suddenly, she felt a warm calm wash over her. Shiraz, the sooty colored coat, had taken to Freya without incident. The night before he had followed her obediently, confused and worried, and unsure of who his real mother was. The young thing felt comfort curled next to this mare, the one that had tended to him seconds after he was born. So as they approached Macabre and Dogun, the foal hesitated at Freya's side, awkwardly leaning his weight into her shoulder, and nipping playfully at the mare's chest. He was too young, too naive to realize how malnourished he was too. Starving even, now that hours had passed since he was brought into this world.

Macabre watched her son from a distance. She remained quiet, studying his movements, noticing features that resembled his father, a man Shiraz would likely never meet. Macabre, too, wished she could rid herself of the memory of Dexter. But that was impossible now, when every day she would see him in the form of their child. "You must be hungry, Shiraz." She finally spoke, her voice hoarse and cracking from a night of no use. The mare took a few short strides toward her offspring, her head low. She could the feel the milk bubbling between her legs. It was a strange sensation, something she wasn't sure she'd ever get used to. Shiraz looked up to Freya, as if looking for guidance, before cautiously reaching out to his mother. It didn't take long for him to begin nursing.

Macabre winced and fidgeted as her son began to feed, but she allowed a heavy exhale to pass through her parted lips. She was alive, for the time being, and so was her son. It appeared The Reaper had bigger plans for her demise. Last night was merely test, another tragic experience to add to the many others than came before it. Her tired glare passed over the mare and then to Dogun. They were polite and kind. She hadn't experienced such generosity in some time. "I am not mad." She said, finally. "I am grateful. Thank you."