Meadow

After leaving the Peak, Iscariot walked for hours. He walked until the ground leveled and the trees thinned. He walked until the sky darkened from turquoise to cobalt, to dary navy, to black. He walked until it felt as if the bones of both hind legs had been chewed to splinters. Splinters that sunk themselves deep into his aching muscles, splinters that left him bleeding from more than just his heart. And even then, the pale stallion continued— weaving, wavering, but pushing relentlessly forward through it all. Pain. Exhaustion. And a grief so heavy that its burden was like the weight of a second creature laid across his withers, or perhaps carried within his belly. Like Faolain and Rivaini’s unborn child. The one he’d sired; the one whose existence had torn him and Roisin apart. The one the young mare expected him to run to— as if she meant less to him than a child who had two loving parents waiting for him or her.

Now Roi had nothing. And Iscariot had nothing. Nothing but his regrets and a crushing, terrifying emptiness.

Embracing that emptiness, the perlino stallion let it carry him on and away, even after he ran out of land and stopped on a desolate, pebbled beach. Ahead, the sea was the only obstacle between the pale creature and the fulfillment of Roisin’s command— but he couldn’t. And it wasn’t only stubbornness or pride or even his legs that held Iscariot prisoner on the Crossing. It was fear— because he couldn’t stay, and being there for them now only meant condemning his child to watch and wonder and worry. To suffer as Roisin had suffered. He couldn’t. It was doubt— because it just didn’t feel right to leave his young friend, even though he hadn’t exactly had a choice in the matter. And it was hope, because there was a chance that Roi might change her mind. And until that slender thread was severed, Iscariot would cling to it with everything that he was. Until he knew for certain, he would stay.

It was the last gift he could offer to the girl who had— inexplicably and irrevocably— become the center of his world.

But staying was not without its price. Between his weak, painful limbs and his complete lack of confidence, Iscariot was ill-equipped to survive the trials of a solitary existence. Despite the abundance of grazing summer’s warmth offered, Iscariot grew even more slender— mostly because he was afraid to stop moving. In the Ridge, he’d learned to fear shadowcats that preyed on the weak and the young, and his sister had drilled her lessons in safety until he could recite them in his sleep. I want you to stay with the herd, Iscariot. But if you don’t— if you don’t, then stay moving. They wait in the trees, and if you stop for even a second... that’s when they’ll make their move. There were fewer trees here, and no shadowcats— but he stopped only when necessary, and stole moments of sleep in brief, light shifts where he could. He drank only enough to slake his immediate thirst, and only where others of his kind were present. He grazed on the move— a mouthful of grass here, a snatched leaf or two there.

It wasn’t enough.

As summer released its hold on the islands, the chill that crept in to fill its absence reminded Iscariot of the struggles that winter would bring. Snow and ice. Cold, lonely nights spent shivering in some copse. The source of his kind’s nourishment withered and buried beneath a blanket of snow. And with that harsh, undeniable truth, the scales finally tipped. Hunger won out over fear, and the sun rose to find Iscariot in the Meadow, tearing out mouthful after mouthful of the sun-brittled grass to sate the hollowness of his belly— and strive in vain to fill that other emptiness, too. Pale eyes falling closed as he chewed, the perlino shivered as memories of his absent companion flooded his mind. Roi laughing as she tucked a flower behind one of his ears. Roi tucking herself into his side on the Lagoon’s shore. Roi with tears streaming down her face and a hard anger in her eyes as she stomped one hoof, her voice a harsh snarl. ...if you would just trust yourself…

But he hadn’t. He didn’t. He couldn’t. And as he began to pull more at the tangles of that painful mess, Iscariot could almost smell the sabino mare. He could almost hear her say his name, and then— and then—

Then she was there, crashing into his body with a force that left no room to doubt that she was real. And Iscariot— unable to separate this sobbing, repentant creature from the fierce, furious mare who’d shouted at him only a season ago— stepped hastily backwards, half-expecting a physical blow. After all, he deserved it. He’d left her, he hadn’t gone back to the Ridge, and, and— and he’d made an awful mess of everything. Yet somehow, despite all that, he felt a surge of gratitude at this chance to see her. To see that she was still strong and healthy and whole, even as he crumbled to pieces. Because she didn’t need him; she’d never needed him.

Then the white face pressed into his neck, and Iscariot was left standing there— wretched and confused— as the young mare fell to pieces, too. "Roi, no," he murmured, his throat tightening with that second word; stemming the tide of his tears... and his words. "No, I—" Yes, he. He had done this, and he would also do whatever it took to make her happy again. He’d leave, he’d go back to the Ridge. He’d come back to the Peak. He would vanish entirely, if that’s what it would take. He just didn’t want to see her cry again.

He didn’t want to hurt her again.