Meadow

The grey drizzle is soundless, the meadow quiet as a grave. Most individuals have paired off with companions or lovers and made for the shelter of trees, or begun the long swim back to their home isles. The unexpected rustle of an approach, therefore, makes one of Arkana's black-tipped ears twitch, and she lifts her head to peer through the gloom. As the mottled silhouette materializes before her, her mouth parts, and a few blades of uneaten grass flutter to the damp ground.

His voice and flowing accent are the same, as is his starry assortment of freckles and spots, but there the resemblance to the old Fearghas ends. Some differences are to be expected, of course; since they last saw one another, they've earned an additional two years of life experience each, and for Arkana at least, much has happened in that time. She's grown a few inches, filled out into the padded curves of a mare, and her belly has slackened from child-bearing.

The changes in Fearghas, however, are alarming. Gone is the stallion with the charming, goofy smile and easy laughter. Weight has fallen off him, leaving behind a weary-looking stallion made up of little more than sharp angles, and there's a look of desolation on his face that puts her own to shame. It hurts to look at him.

She gapes at his question, and her eyes drop to the slick grass at her feet, searching for an answer hidden in the tangle of their stems. "Fearghas," is all she manages before her voice deserts her. She stares at him, her heart heavy in her chest, and then he speaks again in that liquid dialect of his. She struggles to follow what he's saying at first, but she understands the important part: I'm sorry, Arkana, for what happened.

"It's okay, really; I--" she insists, but her voice is small, and her eyes dart away. Suddenly the humidity is cloying, and she shifts her weight, restless and wishing she could crawl out of her skin. It crosses her mind, then, that she could fling insults at him - she could tell him how he broke her heart, and how he's a pathetic excuse for a man. It might even feel good to direct blame at someone other than herself for a change. But she cannot do it to him. It wouldn't be true, anyway; she has avoided him as much as he has avoided her. And when she searches deep inside herself for some resentment toward him, she can find none.

"Fearghas, you did nothing wrong," she finally adds, after letting out a long, slow breath. "We had fun, and we didn't see each other again. It doesn't need to be anything more than that." She levels her gaze at him, her eyes wide and shining like glass. Something - a strange kind of tenderness, or perhaps even guilt - in his expression strikes her as odd, and she stands there mulling it over until a cold wave of dread sweeps over her.

He knows.

”...Does it?” she adds feebly.