This girl is a gun, before you know it, it's done
And you'll be wishing that you crossed your fingers

t has been almost a year since Asmodeus has left. A year that Marceline has been on her own, a year of Oberon asking after his absent sire, a year of waiting with bated breath for the Shore to fall under new claim.

It is difficult for Marceline to understand the dichotomy of time. In the mere blink of an eye an entire year has passed, yet there are days that feel as if they drag on for ages, moments that seem as if they may stretch into eternity.

Each day she looks to the horizon, watching the sun scintillate across the rolling waves, praying that she might finally spot Asmodeus' familiar form bobbing amidst the foam. Each day she is left disappointed and each day she is pulled just a little closer to the precipice of grief. It is only the small mote of hope that she nurtures within her chest that prevents her from falling over that edge into the inky void of anguish that is waiting to swallow her whole.

It is strange, the doleful feeling that seems to follow her. Even when she feels happy it continues to nip at her heels, reminding her of its lingering presence. Only once has she been left so bereft over the loss of another, and though time has dulled the ache, she still feels Senu's absence like a thorn in her side.

Some might call it heartbreak, pain for a love lost. Marceline isn't so sure. She had never truly taken the time to analyze the fondness she'd held for Senu or Asmodeus, had never deigned to put a label on the feelings they stirred deep within her chest. She certainly did admire them, that much she would admit, but love? It seemed a silly notion. Love was something from a fairy tale, a lie spun for comfort, to let others believe that abject loneliness was not the only thing they would ever know. For so long Marceline had considered herself above such things, but now, with this awful feeling threatening to rend her ribs apart and eat her heart whole, she isn't so sure.

But ultimately, she decides, it doesn't matter. Both of them are gone, and Marceline must find her own way again. The new Shore king has been generous enough to allow her to remain, yet even with his assurances she still finds herself restless. For the first time in a long time she is no longer tethered to another, and ler legs itch to carry her across the Islands, if only for awhile. Perhaps, if she is very lucky, she will find reprieve from the emptiness she now carries inside her.

It is this longing for alleviation that eventually leads her to sneak from the Shore one evening, leaving Oberon to watch over Imshael. She spares them one last glance over her shoulder before she plunges into the sea, her sights set on the dark line of the Crossing on the horizon.

The sun has set by the time she drags herself from the frigid water, the stars twinkling to life one by one above her. She pauses to take stock and shake the brine from her body before she continues on her destinationless quest. Through the night she wanders, skirting around the Commons, ambling across the empty Meadow, and pausing to peer up at the snow-capped Peak where it rises into the gossamer moonlit clouds. Oh, how she wishes she could return, to find solace with the mares she had once called sister. But her time in the Peak is a thing of the past, and she knows she is better off leaving the valkyries to their machinations.

By the time she reaches the northern shore of the Crossing, the first faint light of sunrise can be seen on the horizon. She should turn back, should return to her waiting children and the land she calls home. But still she feels that pull in the pit of her stomach, and so she lets the tide carry her towards Luthien, wondering what she might find on its waiting shores.

The sunrise has begun to spill across the cloudless sky in hues of peach and periwinkle when she arrives. Marceline turns to face the sea, her speckled coat soaked in saltwater, and breathes in the briny air. For several long, peaceful minutes, the only sounds that fill her ears are the rhythmic crash of the waves and the merry sound of birdsong from the forest behind her.

But as the sun creeps higher, there is an unmistakable rustle of dry foliage, the brittle sound of a snapping twig. Marceline's ears flick back atop her poll, listening as the sound of someone fumbling through the forest grow closer. Then it grows quiet again, and Marceline's muscles tense with anticipation. But no voice sounds from behind her, no dull thud of hooves against sand meeting her ears. Yet there is that tell-tale feeling of being watched that prickles across her spine. A heavy sigh of agitation breezes past her lips, the fleeting feeling of peace slipping from her grasp.

Impatient and unwilling to be observed by some skulking stranger, Marceline swivels her head to peer over her shoulder. "I hear you lurking," she announces to the leaf-bare wall of trees, her tone heavy with impatience, "why don't you quit wasting time and come out already?"