Meadow

It is eerie to me sometimes, how well my Husband can read my face. After years spent alone and with perfect strangers, it stuns me to hear him voice my innermost concerns as if I'd spoken them aloud, and I sober to listen. He speaks of the machinations of leaders, and attempts to reassure me that our daughter had known Rigel, too. That her uncle had spent hours of instruction with her as a girl, tempering and answering her many hundreds of questions, imparting his wisdom unto her.

I knew this, but it did not lessen my fear. Pretend intrigue was one thing, but had any of us bothered to lecture her on the minutiae of day-to-day life? Of how ranked ladies could take offense if you stood on the wrong side of them, or how you were expected to incline your head just so for this official, and avert your gaze for that one? I, at least, had never imagined a day in which we might return permanently to our homelands; we were too different, too independent to flourish within the bounds of our strict upbringings. Had I known of this day, I would have taught her more things and been less indulgent of the bond that we shared. I would have been her Mira first, and her mother second, rather than the other way around.

But, too, I can hear in my Beloved's voice that he must believe that she was ready for this, else the guilt might eat him alive. And this, too, I understand. I am too thankful to have him with me again to harp on this, and so with careful hands I fold my worries and tuck them deep beside for later, when I might yet confess to the stars all the troubles that my heart carries.

"Yes, I remember," I say, a faint smile touching my lips as I recalled those tumultuous days. What I would not give to go back to the early days of our life together, while I fumbled my way through learning how to be their Mira. Even still, it had been a long time since I had acted with any authority, and I found my voice faltering beneath the certainty in his own. It was as it had been in the beginning, with me on the back foot stumbling to catch up.

My Beloved speaks then of the Dunes and of the vacancy in the herd; I wonder who it is that leads now. Antares speaks truly of our family's golden age being beneath the Teke stallion; what had followed was a series of unfortunate mistakes that haunts me even now. Even so, I am nervous about this unknown creature that will have power over us. Will they be benevolent? Apathetic, as Maslakhat was? Or would they be cruel?

I supposed only time would tell and so I smiled again, although I suspect it did not fully reach my eyes. "Then we shall hope, as we rest. I could not bear to watch you swim in this condition, my love. You look as if I could push you over, let alone the ocean itself." I brushed my muzzle along the proud arch of his crest and drew in another lungful of his familiar scent. For years I had only dreamed of what it might be like to be with him again, and even now I feared that I would wake in the morning alone again, having only dreamed of our reunion.

"Come," I said with more authority than I felt, drawing from the surety he had instilled in me as his wife, "let me bathe you, and you shall tell me of all that happened to you." I knew hearing of the crimes that he had suffered in detail would serve to cut us both, but I was also afraid that if he did not release the festering pain of such a betrayal that it would only sour our attempts to build a future.

Should he let me, I would lead him to the same small pool alongside the stream that cut across the lower reaches of the meadow. Nearest where it fed into the ocean, the water ran more slowly and shallowly, and thus, was more warmed by the autumn sun. It was to here that I led my Beloved, in the hopes that the warmth and gentle cleansing would help to heal his soul as much as it would my own.