Her voice was sweet – far sweeter with her face in sight, joy brilliant in the jewel-green of her eyes. ”I’m glad that you came back to me” -- Who else ever noted my absence? Something quivered in the darkness of my chest: the worn and weary twitching of a muscle overworked. ”My dear –“ I swallowed, teeth clicking hard over the word. Wasn’t she much too old for such endearment? Wasn’t I? The very end of my tail twitched as, anxious, I glanced away. My seasons of vagrancy had done me no favors. At last, conciliatory, I finished: ”I’ve missed you as well.” Though the tone was wry – perhaps self-conscious. I was not accustomed to being looked after – did not know what to do with this affection, which originated from no particular need and survived despite the gulf of time and distance between us. Yet unable to restrain myself, I inched toward her, muzzle outthrust to touch her neck – only briefly. A sign of companionship, perhaps. I had come; I was quite well. Fate would not see us parted again soon, I decided then. I did not like the gleam of sorrow in her eyes.

     Had I ever known Evangeline without sadness? Perhaps a younger version of myself supposed it her own business, if she grew sad or happy. But if I were her friend, I ought to mind – I had no one else, and knew too keenly the bite of despair when it reached its black claws into the brain. ”Are you unhappy here?” I had not given any time to such a thought. Did she feel stifled? Or was something amiss, which I had not managed to grasp in my short time amongst the trees? I stepped back, shifting my lean weight over the grind of old bones, and cocked an eye at the thinning fog, the shadows of young trees. It had not occurred to me before, but if I could, I wished… to do what I may, in order to see her happy.

     Of course, I regretted the impulse the moment the question left her lips. Where had I gone? Away – within my own head, screaming at shadows. I had fled, and left her behind… Whatever madness made the choice, I could not call it anything but a part of me. A long, ragged sigh moved through my chest. ”I fled,” I told her simply. Unable to look her in the eye – afraid of what I might find – I peered into the wilted grass beneath our feet (coward). ”I suspected all I knew of Isilme would soon be broken, but I did not wish to die – so I left. Had I any sense, I might have tried to find you, but I supposed…” Oh, what? I had supposed her dead; I had supposed the herd broken by my own folly, our best soldier burned to cinders, and rightfully furious. Might I have returned to help? Of course – of course. But I had not wanted to; I had been afraid.

     ”I went nowhere in particular,” I said. ”I wandered here and there. It was… I had considered Isilme my home, as no other place had been.” How foolish the sentiment felt – but true. Afresh, I grew angry with myself. ”Where could I have gone? I thought perhaps I would find others, but I never did. And I grew ill…” With a shake of my head, I banished thoughts of my long exile. At last, I glanced up, searching for her eyes – for the sight of judgment, anger, empathy. I knew her too well to expect rebuke, but still I wished for it – if only so I may be at peace, somehow, within myself.

     Though I knew as well I deserved no peace.

     ”I am sorry I left you,” I muttered. The roughness in my voice had little to do with my past illness, though I wished it had. ”I am a fool.”