Beneath the steady hum of the falls, Iscariot was surprised to hear the sound of the red mare’s voice—not twisted with resentment as he’d expected, but soft. Apologetic. And though his words caught every syllable that echoed in the empty chamber of stone, it took far longer for the perlino to understand them. First, the words needed to tumble through the maelstrom of emotions swirling thoughtlessly through his mind: sorrow and regret, confusion and—above all—hope. Hope that Echo did not hate him. Hope that he might yet mend what was broken—not only within her, but also within himself. Because for too long he’d lived with the desperate yearning to be needed. To be the relied-upon instead of the one relying, to be the protector instead of the protected.

For too long he’d lived beside creatures who were bright and bold and beautiful, and was reminded of the single drab sparrow he’d once seen roosting amongst Atlantis’s colorful native birds.

At the time, it had felt like an apt comparison between himself and his sister—or even Faolain. Both of the Ridge’s Guardians seemed so comfortable and confident in themselves that it had made Iscariot wonder what was wrong with him. And yet now—now he stood listening to a mare as she struggled to put her thoughts into words. Now he heard another confess to the dark tangle of doubts that lay at their core. Now he heard the familiar fear and hope that softened her voice, and felt the raw edges of her heart in the sounds of her tears. And though he could scarcely see Echo for the darkness she’d lost herself in—save the bright beacon of her tail and the jagged stripe of white on her face—he rejoiced at the beauty of her. A beauty that wasn’t defined by jeweled colors or exotic songs, but by the pieces of himself he saw reflected in her.

In the blind and broken mare, Iscariot had finally found another sparrow—and in the unexpected moment of her courage, he finally found his own.

The steady rhythm of the pale stallion’s breath faltered when he first felt the warmth of Echo’s touch. And despite the firm command he’d issued to his body, Iscariot caught himself leaning into the brush of her lips, his pale eyes luminous with unshed tears. This was what he’d always needed—not the hollow promises that everything would be okay, but the reassurance that he was strong enough to find his own way through life’s trials. Sheltered and supported for the entirety of his life, Iscariot hadn’t known how it felt to truly stand on his own—not until he’d met the bay mare on the Ridge’s beach. And to hear from her own lips that he had not failed her—that he had not failed himself—was both a burden and a blessing. A burden because he could no longer hide behind the veil of his own insecurities...and a blessing because with her absolution, Echo had given him a new purpose.

Bowing his head slightly to press the flat plane of his forehead into the curved arch of the mare’s neck, Iscariot inhaled deeply and sought deep within himself for the right words to describe this moment. "I—I had no idea," he finally said, letting his voice be both soft and vulnerable. "That is—when you came to me, I couldn’t imagine why. But I am glad that you did, Echo. And if you believe anything, I want you to believe that I had a choice, and I made it." This much was true; while Iscariot couldn’t remember every detail of that day, he knew that he had not felt forced in his decision. Seeing her too-familiar despair—and knowing that he could relieve her of that burden—his choice to help her had been more true to himself than anything else he’d done.

"Any hesitation you may have felt on my part—well, it wasn’t because I felt forced," he confessed in the comfortable silence that followed, lifting his head but keeping close enough to his companion that each exhale of her breath bathed the skin of his neck in a curious, comforting warmth. For once, he didn’t feel anxious about explaining the pain and weakness that troubled his hind limbs. Because of all creatures, he suspected Echo would understand. "My back legs have always been weak and plagued by pain—but please," he interjected suddenly, his soft voice becoming uncharacteristically stern. "Don’t take the burden of my suffering on yourself. I would do so again gladly, knowing that I was able to give you what you needed."

He did not ask about the things that she had left unspoken; about the reason for her fear and desperation. Just as Iscariot knew that Echo could understand things about him that few were capable of grasping, so he intuitively knew that she did not wish to relive whatever had happened. And so instead of forcing her to confront her past, he sought to help her bury it—brushing strands of her inky mane into place with gentle lips. It was only after the strands lay smoothly against her neck that he pulled himself unwillingly from their embrace, wanting to emphasize how this next choice he offered was hers, and hers alone. "I thought that you were running from me...that you had no wish of me beyond what I gave you that day. And if that is true, Echo—then I will leave you. But until you tell me that’s your wish, I will stay with you. Maybe not always at your side, but in your heart."

He smiled sadly, the subtle curve of his lip trembling against the weight of his sorrow—and waited for the sightless mare to show him the way.

To guide him through the darkness.