Meadow

The little glow-bugs are thick this time of year, and it’s easy for Minthe to sweep her eyes across the tree line as she pretends to watch them. The night deepens; in what feels like a repeat of all of her experiences on these Islands thus far, a shadow peels itself away from all the rest and slinks like a panther in her direction. She squints, eyeing the shape as it comes near. If that twiggy bastard has found her yet again, she will have to punish him for it. He is a thorn in her side, a rock in her hoof, and though her gaze remains joyous and a smile still turns up the edges of her lips, her muscles tense, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

As her vision adjusts, and the stranger’s form comes into view, she relaxes; it’s not him, at least, though she realizes he’s not exactly ideal, either. The last stallion to cross her path had the decency to be easy to look at, tall and strong and well-built with a uniquely handsome face. He was rare like her, a diamond in the rough. One of a kind.

Shame he was so pure of heart.

Minthe sets her sights on the shorter, more plain version of him that stands before her now. This one is… kind of ordinary, she surmises as her gaze flicks over him, the both of them quietly sizing up the other, even as her expression stays gentle. His eyes are hard granite, glittering in the neon glow of the insects and the blue light of the rising moon but otherwise invisible in his somber face. He speaks, and the voice that pulls from him surprises her with its roughness. Minthe considers him for a few beats, ears twitching just briefly at his question.

You’ll do, she decides, for the moment. Unless, and until, someone better comes along.

”No,” the doelike mare answers, as if to gently chide him for asking such a simple-minded question. The fireflies flash in warning; her voice turns wistful. “They’re beautiful.”

Minthe takes a step towards the stallion, tilting her head. Her gaze softens some, probing, gauging. “I try to enjoy the beautiful things in life... they’re often gone too soon.” One more subtle stride closer. Her voice turns plush in her mouth, sickly-sweet and tender like rosehips. “We must behold them while we can, before it’s too late.”

Her steps take her nearer still, close enough to touch. Minthe reaches out her muzzle, offering an exchange of breaths.

“Don’t you agree?”

Whether she’s talking about the fireflies - or something else entirely - she doesn’t know. Not that it matters.