Even as her breath quickened and her heart leapt in her chest, the soft deep voice of the red woman’s companion reached her. She clung to the reassurance of his words with desperate hope, though they could not cut cleanly through the tangle of her fears and doubts. Not with the whisper of Medusa’s voice at the edge of her memory— a less-than-gentle reminder of the potential consequences she might face if any of the men she scented were to find her. Stallions can be dogs sometimes. The painted queen had been speaking of Tyr, of course— adamant that his actions in claiming Kvothe were intentional— but of any man, she feared the golden bachelor the least. To her, the towering stallion was like a guardian, like a— a brother. And despite what both Ironclad and Medusa had said, she still believed him incapable of any action that might harm her.

By the time that they emerged from the Lagoon’s shadows and into the light of the small glade, the slender chestnut had moved up to stand beside instead of behind Tyr, the slope of her shoulder pressing into the swell of his belly. It felt comfortable curled into the muscular wall of his body this way; safe. Standing there— mahogany eyes falling closed at the gravelly lullaby of his voice— it was easier to believe his earlier vow. That there was no need for the creeping fear that chilled her blood. That nothing could touch her here. But the soft golden light of the early sun touched her, only a shade or two lighter than the color of her son’s coat. Then grief touched her, tugging cruelly on her heart, on the cords of muscle in her chest.

And whether he sensed the pulsing ache within her or saw the shadow that darkened her gaze, Tyr knew.

The touch that he offered in response was gentle, scarcely more than a brush of lips across the tear-dampened plane of her cheek. But for Kvothe, it felt like a trail of fire was left in its wake— or like the flesh that he’d kissed was transformed, bared like the pale pink strip that marked her face on its other side. Quivering, she exhaled the breath that had caught in her chest in a gentle sigh, tipping her head away to skim her own muzzle along the curve of his withers. Trying to convey to him even in silence that she was here for him, too. That she recognized the loss suffered today not as hers, but theirs— a burden that could be overcome only by sharing its crushing weight.

When you are ready, there is another mare I’d like you to meet. The red Friesian pulled away at this, ending the tender moment of their shared grief. Finding his heterochromic eyes with her own dark gaze, through which countless questions now swam. Surely Tyr did not mean to keep her— even he had to recognize the impossibility of such an act. Without Aslan, there was nothing to justify the careful distance that she’d kept from her King, nothing to hold them apart. And while she wasn’t certain whether there was anything left for her in the Inlet— she had to go, she had to try. Ironclad had claimed her, and she still held true to that claim. Still clung to the hope that the words he’d used— the had, the was— could be reversed.

Regardless of everything that had happened over the past year, she still loved the grey stallion. Of course, she loved Tyr too, but it wasn’t the same. It was more like the tender affection she’d witnessed between Lakota and the Inlet’s ruler; like the gratitude and reverence of the rescued for her savior. A love that was chaste— pure— and far from the all-consuming passion she’d felt for Ironclad from the beginning. It made her blind to the possibility that Tyr might love her another way.

That he might desire her, sad broken thing that she had become.

“Not yet,” she murmured as such, tucking her face into the hollow of this throat. “I— I can’t go. I can’t face… not after I failed him. After I failed you.” Kvothe’s voice faded to a throaty whisper, became soft words that forced themselves between the cracks in the brave mask that she could no longer wear. “Stay with me, Tyr.” She pleaded, remembering when the tall stallion had once begged the same of her. When she had given him those stolen moments willingly, in the hopes that they might offer him the peace to find his way through grief and guilt.

Silent, selfish, she hoped that he might grant her that same precious gift.