Falls

fearghas

Not for the first time, the too-lean stallion edged away from his golden lover with shame on his face and agony in his heart. When they were together the grief was muted by the desperate fascination with which he clung to Varanduil and the shambles of the life that they led. But when he was alone there was nothing to dull the knife's edge of self-recrimination and bone-deep guilt that plagued every waking thought. Everything that he had touched since coming to the Isles had slowly but surely been tainted by his association and he no longer possessed a well of hope deep enough to outlast the pain.

Fearghas cast a furtive glance behind him to check that his lover had not woken and followed him before dipping muzzle to ply at the small patch of flowers. Most avoided them, and rightly so, for their bitter taste and the hallucinogenic effects, but Fearghas had found relief in the numbness of oversensation. If he felt everything, all of the time, he was unable to dwell on the thoughts that hurt him the worst, and so he self-medicated everytime the real world edged too close to his fantasy.

It had been worse than usual lately. Her scent lingered everywhere on the Crossing as if determined to make him face his greatest failure, and he shied away from the trails that he found. He believed, wholly, that they were in his head. After all, the last rumors that he'd heard placed her firmly on Luthien after abandoning the Peak. There would be no reason for the fierce little mare to be here, when she had every reason to hide from Cullen and to avoid him.

This morning was especially hard. He'd woken to what he could have sworn was the lilting sound of Seri's childish laughter, and to the still fading scent of his once-mate. In truth, he chalked such immersive delusions up to the season. As much as Fearghas was determined to be celibate after what had happened with Ally and then with Arkana, the ripe, heady fall scent of mares always brought to mind children and families and homes.

As his lips grasped around a flower - turned brown and brittle by the sun - movement ahead of him drew his sluggish gaze and he watched the twin flash of colors - silvery gray and a soft brown-black like himself - through the trees with shock. Numbly, the too-lean stallion threaded his way through the tree as if drawn inexorably toward the very thing that would hurt him the worst, only to stumble to a stop when the whole confusing tableau unfolded before him.

Images of what was and what could have been mingled through his mind at the sight of Seri - Seri! - and Ally together. Of Seri's first breaths, and first tumble and first game of tag. Of the way she'd looked at him when he'd sent them away from him with a piece of his heart. Of the days before her birth when he'd hovered like a nervous bird around Aallotar, fearing every small thing that could go wrong. It was ironic to him now, that reality had been worse than he could have ever imagined in those days. He thought of the moments where Seri had been created - not just the act itself, but of the nights spent hopeful and dreaming at Ally's side. The days when he'd dared to hope that they had a future together that would not be constantly plagued by heartbreak.

The sight of the young colt at her side - who looked as if he were from this past spring - jostled him from this kaleidoscope of memories and his brow furrowed in confusion. He dreamt often of his lost girls, but never before of a son that looked nothing like either of them and like a rock thrown up on the highway, the impact of the boy's reality shattered the pleasant illusion that this was a dream.

Fearghas swallowed hard as the rest of life's details glittered into too-sharp focus. The wind that buffeted his body was insistent, and it was hard to hear anything over the competing drum of his heartbeat and the incessant rustle of the leaves overhead. Still, he could not tear his gaze away from the small family. Not from Seri's patient tolerance of the boy, nor from Ally's bemused affection for them both. It didn't matter that none of it made sense. It was unbearably real, and he had no idea how to handle reality anymore.

stallion . 5 years . 16.1 hands . smoky black blanket . loveinspired . credit