Meadow

The Crossing was colder than she remembered, emptier. She found little to enjoy here, but it was better than staying in the yawning void that the Prairie had become in Zevulun's absence. Better than waking each day to sad and somber faces, still pitifully hopeful he would return to them. Better than knowing that they were wrong.

Lost loved ones didn't return.

She huffed a malcontent sigh and drifted across the Meadows, lipping aimlessly at the brittle autumn grasses. Her apetite had been sporadic since she'd abandoned her hope, and for the first time since she'd been a young filly her sides had grown svelte rather than plump. Her eyes, too, had grown duller in the wake of her decision to leave, but as she rarely sought out company - much less of the kind that would recognize such changes for what they were - it wasn't a problem. Eventually, she knew, she would move on. She would find a way to store some of this heartache in the same vault she'd given to Pigeon, and move on with her life.

Only she'd be smarter next time. She'd remember this pain and guard herself against it; put up the sort of walls and bulwarks that not even the most charming of men could break down. Not even the rogue? The thought came unbidden, accompanied by the grinning facade of the myserious golden stallion that had drifted into and out of her life on the same breath. She didn't know why his face came to her as clear as it had been that day, his lips spouting praises she had not deserved (and most certainly did not now), but it did.

He remained an enigma to her, a problem she was content to let her mind wrestle with when she needed a distraction as he seemed safe enough to compliment and far enough away that she'd not have to face him again. He'd been so earnest in his compliments, despite not knowing her, and she remained uncertain of how to categorize him. Dreadstag was certainly closer to Rougaru than Zevulun, but his willingness to respect her boundaries set him apart.

Still a man, she reminded herself, snatching a mouthful of bland grass. It was strange though, how she could all but smell him now, as if her thoughts had summoned him into reality. She frowned and lifted her head suspiciously to peer across the Meadow just as his call rippled across the still air.

"Yer alive," she said drily, having closed the distance between them, an unscrutable mask in place. The last thing she wanted to give away was how much she craved interaction with a familiar soul, much less how much time she'd spent considering this particular face. The thick swath of her tail flicked anxiously at her hocks once, twice, before she spoke again, her pale chin lifted half-defiantly. "What is it ye want, Dreadstag?"