The meadow is as cold and dark and desolate as outer space, and the two who share it— they are a pair of meteors drifting closer and closer together. With the shadowed male’s steady steps and the snow-covered woman’s halting crawl, it’s inevitable that they will collide. Yet that inevitability is prolonged by the common fear that they share, a fear that turns the air between them solid. His is the choking apprehension that she might flee again, and Lanfear’s— Her terror stems from the uncertainty over what will happen once their bodies meet. As adamant as the mare might appear, beneath the surface she is as brittle as ice. And part of her is afraid that— that if they do collide, she’ll break apart into a thousand tiny shards.
Still, she’s more afraid of what will happen if they don’t. Of drifting apart again, and this time losing each other in the vast emptiness beyond this moment.
Clinging tightly to the tatters of her will, Lanfear reminds herself that she has faced worse trials. Against countless dangers and the odds themselves, she has survived four long years alone. Compared to this, a single step should be as effortless as breathing. Intertwining her existence with another’s, though… that isn’t as easy. The spotted mare’s entire identity has been defined by her solitude, and surrendering that feels no different than tearing out her own lungs, her own heart. But the longer they stand this way— the longer she feels her companion’s warm skin only inches from her own— the harder it becomes to hold herself apart. Until finally, with a step that seems to bridge a thousand miles, the wild creature brushes tentatively against Viđarr. Leans gently into the obsidian wall of his body.
Then— slowly, warily— tucks her face into the hollow between the stallion’s jaw and his throat, hiding herself away from the world.
For a few seconds, everything holds silent and still. For a few seconds there is only the shallow rise and fall of the shadow’s chest, and the soft quiver of Lanfear’s dark skin. Then the rumble of his voice surrounds her, and the nameless woman listens to the hushed murmur of his words. Käraste, please, forgive me for leaving. Almost as quickly as they’d crept forward, her ears flatten tightly against the side of her head, and a sharp snort rattles in the air. The shadow has given her this moment and more, but Lanfear isn’t ready to forgive him. Not yet.
Not if there’s a chance that her recrimination will hold him here at her side, and prolong the moment that they break apart.
