The sea rolled up the beach in gentle waves, and the rhythm of Bacardi’s sides rising and falling matched it. Soon all three of them — father, daughter, and surf — were breathing in time, their exhales combining into the same sigh. Marlowe’s gaze followed the tobiano male’s, finding the point where the blue sea met the slightly-grayer sky. Feeling her sire’s gentle touch, listening to his soft words, and wondering about what lay beyond. Not beyond Luthien — she could have named the other islands by heart, even though she’d never seen them — but beyond this. Beyond life, in that place where Soraya had now gone. It was a trail of thought she didn’t particularly relish, especially with her father looking so tired and sad.

Tearing her eyes away from the horizon, she buried her face deeper in the bay-and-white coat. As if she could keep Bacardi here forever by clinging to him hard enough.

Feeling the body beside her shift, Marlowe lifted her head to look over the stallion’s back at Amarinora. She offered the golden dun a smile, knowing that it didn’t reach her own pale eyes. Knowing that it couldn’t lift the shadow of grief that was settled over their little gathering. But even the young mare recognized that in a way, this pain was their gift to Soraya. It was their way of expressing how much she had meant to them in life, and how much she moved them in death. At a flicker of movement near the edge of the trees, Marlowe glanced back to see Voyager and Roamer standing their vigil there. Even those not part of Bacardi’s direct family honored his fallen love.

Silence enfolded them for a long moment and the overo girl let it, resting her chin on the white curve of her sire’s withers. Though she had outgrown the stallion by a couple inches, Bacardi would always feel bigger than her in body and spirit. Marlowe worshiped him the way any daughter adored their father, especially one as dedicated and loving as Bacardi. Exhaling softly, she smoothed the wind-tangled white hairs at the base of his mane, glancing significantly at the other mare. If they drowned the Forest’s bay king in enough affection, she hoped that they could ease the worst of his grief. At the very least, the two of them could certainly do a better job comforting him than one alone.

Continuing to groom the painted stallion’s mane, Marlowe wished that Twinge was here. She would have known what to do. And in her times of absence, Bacardi had always seemed... incomplete. As if a part of him remained with her wherever she had gone.