Maziel’s voice finally breaks through the haze. Fell has fallen still, gazing pathetically at the tiny grains of sand in front of his face, and at the foam that drifts in and out of his focus with each wave that pushes up onto the shore. He hears her delicate footsteps as she creeps toward him, and sense begins to take hold of him again. His face burns with shame — the shame of losing Kohelet to Rafe is a given, but it is joined now by the shame of those hesitant hooves in the sand, the certainty that Maziel knows of Fell’s volatility and is so careful to approach him now because of it.

Maybe it is insulting of him to assume that, he realizes as the blind mare’s breath warms his cold skin for a brief moment. Maziel is blind, but she is not stupid; maybe she has known all along.

Still, he feels stupid and unstable and weak, and as though he has released something from a cage where it should have stayed. Quietly knowing of demons and having to confront them directly are two very different scenarios, and although he knows it is futile, Fell grasps desperately for the monster that threw itself into the sand after the fight, hopelessly grappling as though he might be able to stuff it back out of sight, as though it is not too late.

But it is too late, and he knows it. He lifts his heavy head from the sand with a whuff, reaching for Maziel, propping himself up on one battered elbow to brush his muzzle against hers. He can smell fear on her, and he remembers her distaste for the ocean, and his heart clenches even harder that she would risk the roaring waves to approach him. Guilt threatens to consume him — he cannot protect her, he could not protect Kohelet, and now she knows that he is little more than a wild animal, feral, and yet she still chooses to come close — when a cry breaks through the swell of the ocean.

Fell struggles to his feet, trying desperately not to spiral again now that he is confronted by the consequences of his frenzied pacing, the thrashing in the sand, of his decision to scour his legs even deeper with gravel and salt. They are unsteady and agonizing. Rising is a struggle, but there is no other option; he cannot sink into the earth again, or he might never get up at all. His eyes, glazed with exhaustion but present, seek out the frantic shape of Parvati as she rushes toward him.

He is a bit surprised to see her. He can do little to comfort her fears, but there is no question that she means the wolves, and he shakes his head. How could he forget them? They are not back, luckily. He glances over her shoulder, gripped suddenly by the realization that if Parvati is here, Loupgaru may not be far behind. He does not think about what he would (or could, in his current state) do to the painted stallion if he were to appear, but the only other figure Fell spots in the immediate area is the white-and-red Mrgasira as she disappears back into the trees. He wonders, foolishly, if she witnessed his humiliating defeat, and then concludes that she probably did.

He wonders where she intends to go.

The thought flutters away, no room in Fell’s head for it to linger, and he turns his tenuous attention back to Parvati and Maziel on the beach. Gathering what little energy he retains, Fell meets Parvati’s eye, and gestures toward her with his muzzle, before swinging his head and the direction of his gaze to the trees. Because Maziel cannot see his gesture, he turns and limps toward her, using the pressure of his muzzle against her withers to guide her back to shelter.

FELL

stallion. 16hh. black. marwari x. Rougaru x visurix.