Falls

Sabriel stood as breathless and still as the night — a dark sky with trails of stars traced over her skin, with the soft shimmer of moonlight in her hair. But beneath the illusion of calm, the pool of her thoughts eddied and churned. It grasped for ways to somehow take back the truths that she’d revealed. To clutch them back to her chest, to bury them back in her heart. To silence the expectant hum that hung thick and choking in the unmoving air when Zevulun’s eyes met hers. Because whatever the cremello stallion thought that he saw — it wasn’t her. He stared at her like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time, but what he glimpsed was only a reflection of his own light. And in turn, she saw her darkness — the shadow of her grief, the pall of her regrets — reflected back onto him. Dimming the pale gleam of his coat in a way that made her heart ache.

Until he spoke, and the heartfelt warmth of his words made Zevulun radiant again.

I love you now. For all you are, not as you were before.

Pink lips ghosted over the flesh of Sabriel’s cheek; a gentle kiss to seal this vow. And the breath that she’d been holding tumbled from her in a soft oh, twining together with his and rising into the air like silver mist. She inhaled again, her lungs flooding with contradicting washes of cold dread and searing hope. Because this was it, the happiness she’d chased for years of her life throwing itself on bended knees before her — and she couldn’t seize it. There was too much yet that Zevulun didn’t understand. Too much of her that could never be his, and not enough pieces of her left to comprise a worthy offering. This went beyond the matter of good or bad, this —

This can still just be a dream, if you’d like for it to be.

Years ago — before love held any meaning to her — the silver black’s life had been altered (and Uriah’s ended) by a single, brutal kick. But the sharp agony of that moment was nothing to the crushing pain that squeezed her chest at Zevulun’s suggestion. Whatever was right (and it was right, letting the stallion go, it was), the thought of letting him fade away with the morning mist hurt more than her fragile heart could bear. Sabriel didn’t want this to be a dream. She didn’t want him to go. But it felt like a lie to let him stay. To let him believe he could hold every piece of her.

Then tell him. She had to, though it meant that he would go. Without that absolution of that truth, there would be no true happiness; no true peace. Sighing softly, Sabriel leaned into the spotted male’s touch for what might be the last time… and then spoke. “I would rather it be real,” she answered in a voice that shook with emotion. “But Zevulun—” She could not hold his gaze any longer. Letting it go, the dark mare stared at the pebbled soil instead, speaking softly but clearly. “I couldn’t give you what you deserve. I couldn’t give you all of me.”

The pain in that confession was palpable in her voice — and in her eyes when she looked up at him again, afraid of what she might find when she did. “You know now that I love you. But you must also know that there will always be a piece of my heart that belongs to Solomon, and one that belongs to Bondurant as well. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since we were together. It doesn’t matter that they’re—” Sabriel’s voice broke here briefly, and she drew in a shuddering breath before she continued. “—gone. I still love them. I’ll always love them.” Once again she turned her head towards the cremello, her dark lips seeking his skin. Yet at the last moment the inky woman hesitated, her expression apologetic and soft and uncertain.

“Just like I will always love you, Zevulun.” And it didn't matter whether he understood. It didn't matter whether he accepted her as she was; the pieces of her that she could offer.

He could no more change that truth than Sabriel could change her own heart.