She’d experienced the miracle of life more than once in her two years of life, but this marked the first time the girl had encountered the darker side of its nature. And while the familiar mare looked as peaceful lying there as her brother had in his first moments, that peace was reserved for the dead alone. Staring down at the shadowed-gold figure, Marlowe’s breath hitched, and a strangled sound trapped itself in her throat. Soraya. The woman had helped her mother watch over her before she was weaned, and she’d played with her daughter when she was younger as well. But Honey’s scent in the Forest had faded, and Soraya - had that been why she’d left them? Did she feel she had nothing left to live for, no purpose here in the Forest?

The painted girl’s heart ached, a pang of guilt coursing through her. She should have spent more time with Soraya, she should’ve talked to her, shown her appreciation and her love. But her regret - as strong as it was - was not strong enough to bring the mare back, and the traces of another scent that surrounded her gave Marlowe a purpose to cling to. Father. Bacardi’s scent was all around the fallen mare, leading away along one of the Forest’s twisting paths. His daughter followed hesitantly, the sound of her hooves muffled by the soft loam. She didn’t know what to say or do, but her father would be hurting, so she had to do something.

She couldn’t bear even the thought of losing him too.

When the trees began to thin and the soft murmur of the sea grew louder, Marlowe finally stopped. She peered out from the forest’s shadows, watching her sire standing just beyond the waves’ reach. An air of melancholy surrounded the bay stallion, making him look older and more tired than she could ever remember seeing him before. And it scared her. It filled her mind with the image of Bacardi lying unmoving, his golden eyes blank and unseeing, his warmth leached away into the soil-

Tossing her head as if to fling the thoughts away, the red dun stepped out into the open and walked slowly across the sand. Marlowe made no effort to disguise the sound of her approach, but she didn’t announce herself either. Instead, she continued forward until she was close enough to press her muzzle into the small space between Bacardi’s elbow and his body. It was a gesture she hadn’t done since she was small enough to do it without bowing her head; an expression of surrender and utmost love. A means of drawing comfort, and in the same moment giving it as well.

It was all that she had to offer besides empty words - but Marlowe, loving her father as she did, yielded those too.

“Daddy. I- I’m so sorry.”