Falls

Together, piece by piece, they weave together an uneven tapestry marred by missing information. It hurts to hear some of the things the star-studded mare shares, as he imagines it may have hurt to hear what little he could tell her. But, like the conflagration which sweeps clean a forest, it also heals.

She speaks of fathers, in reality or in name, and he closes his eyes with a deep bow of his head. So much damage done by those who should be guiding and nurturing. Even the first of his own line had contributed, unfortunately, to the demise which followed. For even though it is the actions of one individual which are to blame, was not that same individual not influenced by the actions of another? Had his great-grandsire not favored —as was perceived— one brother over another, would not his mother's father have been a different man once she was born, and perhaps received her with all the warmth awarded to his firstborn, and all the love every child is owed?

Rille's eyes fly open at his mother's name, his mahogany gaze settling unerringly on that of Lysandra's. His breath catches, and his next ragged exhale holds a shaky sob. Would that he could cover the distance of a thousand miles in one beat of his heart and tell her, tell her so she might never grieve herself sick again. He can do nothing for his mother, separated as they are by both distance and time, but he shifts himself away from his warm patch of sun and over the still-dewy grass to settle directly beside Lysandra and soothe her with quiet murmuring as she is overwhelmed with grief. He cries with her, quietly, tears tracking down his cheeks at a love needlessly lost, needlessly parted, and grooms the fur of her neck as much for her as for himself.

"Jezibelle," he murmurs, "lives far, far away from here in a land of giant pines, accompanied always by her faithful brother. He guards her, and he guards their herd— a herd of horses which she oversees judiciously, kindly. Lovingly. Unconditionally. She raised a boy carefully as a moonbeam touched down to earth and made efforts to ensure he never saw her cry. But he did, sometimes. Sometimes, when the night was lit so brilliantly by that heavy faraway moon, she wept. She wept and her brother held the boy back, kept him quiet. Hid that silver mane from his mother's eyes and taught him to witness without judgment, without interference. It was not always the right decision, but well did the boy learn when to touch, when to soothe, and when to leave well enough alone.

His mother told him stories, all the time. Stories of a forest ravaged by a great black beast, sometimes a bear and sometimes not. Stories of fairy-folk, friends to her in place of an older sister, nurturing when her parents weren't. My favorite tales were those of the moon-as-lover; romantic and impossible, they lit her face like nothing else, like she held the light of the moon just under her own skin. She told me a story, just once, of the day her moon came down to earth to bring her— well, me. The boy. Born of the moon." Rille pauses, exhales lightly against Lysandra's skin. "We are not of like blood, and yet, I would call you blood-sib all the same." His eyes flick to the mountain beyond, following her gaze. Her words hang between them, warm and binding and illuminating as the sun. "Let us imagine them, then, the Moonwalker and his Mountain, as they ought to be remembered. A mare of full, sound heart whose laughter shook the needles of pines, and a stallion, resplendent as the moon, who reflected all the beauty in the world so that even the blind might see it. What a pair they must have made," he murmurs. "I should have liked to meet him."

Rille tugs gently on a length of her mane. "We should be up, sister, and about our lives. You to your mountain, and I to my woods." He gathers himself to rise and pauses to press his damp cheek to hers for a long moment, murmuring, "You will think of me when you see the trees and I, you, at every sign of stone until the wind blows us together again. Know that I hold you now in my heart past its last beat, and will carry you with me into the earth just as our parents have carried one another. You will never be alone."