Ruske;;

      Some realization of sense appeared to hit the mare; she reversed direction quickly, drawing away as curiously as she had approached. I watched her go without comment, aware that, had I made such a mistake myself, I would likely handle it less gracefully and wish no attention on the subject. ”I suppose so…” her voice broke the uncomfortable silence between us, solemn for the first time. Something akin to pity moved in my breast, but ignoring the sensation I resigned myself to merely observing. I knew of nothing comforting to say; my authority in such a situation had ever been tenuous at best, and only begun to deteriorate with time. Perhaps I should have left when the chance presented itself… A weary sigh gave the only voice to my thoughts.

      The mare appeared to come back to herself, whatever true intelligence lay under her skull withdrawing and turning away from me. She watched the sea; I read sadness in her, lingering and distant – a feeling I recognized, though likely for far different reasons. I glanced away, measuring the pale color of the sand. Dead children are not a thing to be shared with strangers… Again, I counted myself lucky to be in the position I was in, if I must find myself in such a situation at all – far better to be the ill-prepared comforter than the one in need of comfort. My own bad memories were buried somewhere long ago, not for the ears of others… I regretted, on her behalf, my inability to forget the entire affair.

      She spoke again, remembering, and slowly my ears moved forward to cup the words. ”Caves? No, but I have heard stories of a… darkness in this land. I arrived after its banishment, through no skill of my own.” Perhaps her vulnerable state left me candid, easier in the company of one disadvantaged than I might be with someone more proud. Perhaps the events of the day merely wore me down. Whatever the reason, I listened without much judgment, feeling rather that in some small way, I owed her the rest of my patience.

      ”You fell from a star?” This part of her story still jarred my thoughts, and disbelieving I cocked my head. ”That is…” Impossible, spoke my instinct. Improbable, I corrected a moment later, accounting for the existence of gods and goddesses, beings only known to me in the truest sense for a brief time. Perhaps she did fall from a star. Perhaps my former home was swallowed up by ghosts, as well, and here the both of us divest of our former paths. Happier paths.

      I flinched when she began to yell, muscles tensing though I never truly expected harm from her. The noise still excited old instincts, fears once kept honed to razor sharpness, and I turned to stare with my head up, breath rushing into my lungs. ”I do not want to start over again!” she added, and I felt an odd rush of sympathy, and something else – some shivering thing that began in my chest and erupted out – a hoarse laugh, genuine perhaps for all I hardly expected mirth in such a place. But I did laugh, commiserating at least with this sentiment, so thoroughly childish and so thoroughly true I could only agree. ”It does grow tiresome,” I murmured when the laughter died. My own gaze stirred out toward the ocean, that element of my kind which I had always shunned, judging it unknown. ”But what is the alternative? Death?” I had attempted that – or perhaps better said, I had allowed it to occur. But Evangeline had stopped me… Evangeline. A frown crawled slowly over my face, the old solemnity returning. I never felt happy for long. Never.

      I blinked at the mare once more when she apologized. Mermaid – she had told me that. A strange name, but I stored it away, certain at least I would recognize her again if we did meet in the future. ”You need not apologize,” I answered, a low sigh breezing out with the words. My tail twitched, unhappily. ”I have ever made my living tending the ill. And I have found myself in stranger circumstances than these, before… Though I think perhaps caution is in order when you find yourself in the cold season again.” Something like a wry smile twitched at my mouth, but failed quite to form. ”Still,” I added, a touch ingratiated by her changed demeanor, ”I am rarely treated so courteously after the fact. It is a pleasure to meet you, I think. I’ve known few others here who truly seemed as… ill at ease as I sometimes feel.” I glanced away as I spoke, uncertain as to what I truly wanted to convey. Perhaps I only wanted someone else to understand – I missed the old home. Missed Sinn. Missed never needing to watch my own step… I was not made for a land like this, for a new life again and again. I grew weary of making mistakes and weary of shepherding the foolish young.