Meadow

Faolain had not come with any expectations in mind when she found Rivaini, but the accusation of a prank threw her off a little. She had considered the possibility of needing proof, and when she had first set out she thought she should still have Iscariot’s scent on her. After the storm and the lost trail, Faolain was sure the stallion’s scent had washed away. She didn’t know how to prove that she had spoken to Rivaini’s pale brother, that it was not a cruel joke.

The silver bay’s tone had been flat, almost hopeless. Faolain wondered if she truly believed it to be a joke. Was she so sure Iscariot was dead? It was not impossible that he was, and that someone else had made the connection and brought her the news before Faolain found her. The slight black mare did not like the possibility, and her stomach began to sour before Rivaini’s next words threw her off even more.

as black and unblemished as you are. Had she misspoken? Unlikely. Was she mistaken in her grief? Even more unlikely—Faolain knew people did not just forget their lost loved ones. Maybe a few markings, and after many years of loss, but not something as drastic as a whole coat color in a few days. Was it a trick? A test? Faolain did not know how to respond. She just stood there for a few long, awkward seconds, the gears of her mind turning steadily.

"Iscariot is ivory," she finally stated, rather stupidly. "I… shouldn’t be telling you what your own brother looks like. Perhaps you are not the mare I was looking for. But the stallion I left on the west beach is taller than I, a bit taller than you, and ivory. His hind legs are angled incorrectly and they pained him when we searched the beach." She paused. She was unsure if she was doing the right thing, but she was certain this was Rivaini. "He is soft-spoken and kind," she added. "How… how do you know he’s dead?"

She stopped talking then, waiting anxiously for Rivaini’s answer. Faolain realized she was feeling some type of way, a kind of dread that she had not experienced before. When she lost her herd, the young mare had felt inconvenienced, and had not slept for days because of the change. But she had never felt sorrow, or regret for her inability to find them again. She had not missed them. They hadn’t been particularly loving toward her, providing her with the material necessities of life as a young filly (food, water, protection—all things that were particularly hard to find in the desert without the help of experienced adults) but none of the affection or teachings or other long-term gifts usually given to young foals as they mature into adulthood. But they had still been her family, and she had not missed them or worried about their safety.

She thought now that if Iscariot had died, she would miss him. She had only known him for a few hours, but had developed a novel attachment to the ivory stallion that had led her to act in ways she would not normally act. She thought that with him alive, her abnormal actions were not bad ones, despite the way they confused Faolain about her identity. With him dead, she wondered if those abnormalities would halt, or if they would become toxic and self-destructive instead of productive. She thought the latter was more likely. It would take a lot of work to undo this connection if it was true that Iscariot was dead, and Faolain was not looking forward to it.

FAOLAIN