Thicker Than Water

Springtime in Elketh was an explosion of color. Miles of verdant, rolling hills were covered with an endless sea of flowers. They covered every inch of the grass, burying the path under a carpet of blossoms and petals. White, scarlet, violet, blue; every color of the rainbow and more, with even golden and ink-dark flowers nudging through the crowded field to spread beneath the sun. There had to be millions of them, far more than anyone could hope to count. They swayed in the breeze like ocean waves, rippling across the buried road.

Sailing languidly across the floral sea, the train of carts and camels trundled along through the petals. The only landmarks amongst the gentle hills were occasional islands of rustling trees. The stands of oaks and cedars, their branches already burgeoning with leaves, waved slightly in the ceaseless, shifting breeze. Faeloch had long since vanished into the hills behind, along with the inn and the room where Cranberry had spent much of the night lying awake, staring at the wall as she listened to Inger’s soft breathing.

She and Inger still hadn’t spoken about their fight last night on the Aurora. In the bustle of leaving the port, it had been easier to focus on the task at hoof, both of them too busy helping to get the carts hitched and underway to talk. Once on the road, it was likewise easy to focus on walking, with Inger naturally taking up a position near the head of the caravan alongside Castor and Pwyll, and Cranberry falling back between the carts with Apricot.

Pollux had given his apprentice the task of tying various knots in a length of string, which kept Apricot’s horn aglow and his eyebrows knit in concentration. Cranberry kept having to gently readjust her son’s course to keep him from walking off into the flowers. Every time he got one of the knots, he’d burst out with bubbly excitement, drawing a smile from her. When his brother Strawberry had learned to fly, he’d been dedicated and intense like his father, but Apricot’s flavor of study was a mirror of her own. She recognized the delight of not simply discovery, but sharing what he was learning.

He seemed to have forgotten all about witnessing his parents’ argument. Cranberry had waited all day with dread for him to bring it up, but he’d only spoken about his magic lessons, and how proud he was to help with the mercenaries’ logistical efforts. Whenever he caught a falling barrel or helped one of the wagon wheels over a ditch in the rough road, he’d earn an appreciative mane ruffle from Kaduat, who seemed to already consider him part of the team.

Cranberry still wasn’t sure what to think of the camel. Kaduat was in many ways her opposite. She was a soldier, where Cranberry was a scholar; she seemed effortlessly relaxed at all times, while Cranberry felt more wound up by the day. Kaduat was a self-admitted alcoholic—in jest, though it was one of those jokes that painted a smile on the truth—whereas Cranberry had been stone cold sober for years. Frowning at the unwanted memory of her last sip of alcohol, Cranberry watched Kaduat strain at the yoke of the lead wagon, taking her turn pulling the cart as the afternoon wore on.

“A florin for your thoughts?” asked a friendly voice, and Cranberry smiled as she turned to see Beatriz walking beside her. “You’ve got that scrunched-up look again.”

“Just thinking about last night,” Cranberry temporized.

“Ah. I saw you and that young deer huddled over in the corner.” Beatriz laughed. “Academics. You can spy them launching into a lecture from a kilometer away.”

Embarrassed, Cranberry’s ears flattened. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” Beatriz snickered. “Just a funny one. So, what were you two talking about?”

“At first he wanted to hear about bloodline writing. It’s an ancient elken technique,” she explained, pausing to nudge Apricot back on course. “A fairly obscure one, at that. The knowledge of making bloodlines has been lost for millennia. When I asked where he’d heard of it, he said that Locke had brought it up. Turns out the two of them were exchanging letters after he led the expedition into the forest.”

“Oh,” said Beatriz, lifting an eyebrow. “So you think Locke might have run into some of those, uh, bloodlines, then?”

“Exactly.” Cranberry pursed her lips. “So then Pwyll and I spent the rest of the night trying to figure out what was going on down there from the rest of Locke’s letters. It still isn’t very clear, but it paints a different picture than his official reports. Or at least, a more interesting one.”

Beatriz nodded curiously. Cranberry chewed her lip, recalling the conversation. “Pwyll said Locke seemed focused on magical storage. The word reservoir came up several times in their letters. Something about finding an inordinate amount of glass in the caverns. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen, Locke wrote.”

“Glass?” Beatriz blinked. “Well, they probably weren’t building windows underground…”

“Glass makes a good storage medium for magical energy,” said Cranberry. “If he found that much down there, then the elk must have been using it to store quite a lot of power.”

“For what?”

“If Locke was right about the towers back in Equestria, then it was a gateway network. It would take incredible amounts of energy to send travelers across the globe with magic. But it raises another question—where were they getting all that power from?” Cranberry frowned unhappily. “I’ve got a bad feeling that serious blood magic was involved. Especially if Locke found bloodlines.”

At that, Apricot’s ears perked up. For the first time all day, he emerged from his shell of concentration on the knotted cord. “Blood magic?”

Cranberry nodded, grimacing. “The modern elk despise their ancestors, and for good reason,” she said. “The Dominion was powered by blood magic, and lots of it.”

Apricot’s eyes widened. “But what is it?”

A new voice joined the conversation from behind them. “It’s power,” said Pollux, uncharacteristically stone-faced. Cranberry stepped to the side to let him walk forward between her and Apricot. There was no sign of his usual easy smile. “Spellsinging gave the elk unparalleled control of magic. Blood gave them the raw power to use it.”

His scowl deepened. “Every living creature has a connection to the song, especially those with horns. That connection runs in our blood… which means it can be tapped into. Stolen. In the moment blood is spilled, that creature’s link to the song is lain bare for anyone to touch, to steal, to burn as fuel for their own magic. It’s the ultimate act of selfishness.”

Apricot shivered. Grimly, Pollux looked down at his apprentice. “All you need to know about blood magic is to stay far away from it. Now,” his voice lightened again as he poked a hoof at the hovering little cord, “those knots won’t tie themselves. Back to it.”

Subdued, Apricot nodded, returning to his task. Pollux gave Cranberry and Beatriz a nod, before continuing ahead toward his brother at the front of the caravan.

Cranberry’s gaze lingered on him for a few worried moments, before she returned to Beatriz. “Something strange is going on,” she muttered. “With this whole expedition. With Locke. I think he was hiding something.”

Beatriz’s eyebrows knit together. “From who?” she asked, hushed.

“I don’t know, yet.”

Tybalt, said an eager voice in her head. Frowning, she suppressed it. She had no proof, yet.

Oh, but wouldn’t it be perfect? Vallen the villain, out to destroy your marriage, steal your husband, and kidnap your colleague. Then you could prove Inger wrong. Prove that you’re not just jealous.

Huffing, she shook her head. “Just keep an eye out for anything strange, Beatriz.”

“Hey, I told you,” said the antelope, winking, “call me Bea.”

Cranberry couldn’t help but smile in return. “All right, Bea. Thanks.”

* * *

Inger heard it before he saw it. At first, it sounded almost like running water, faint and constant in the distance. But a river wouldn’t shift with the breeze, nor grow louder as the wind rushed faster. The sound grew in a crescendo and then lulled to quiet, over and over, like a faint whisper at the edge of hearing. As the caravan climbed over a tall hill, the source was at last revealed by the evening sunlight.

The Elderwood spread out before the travelers. A line of white-trunked trees rose like a forbidding cliff against the ocean of flowers, stretching out to either side for kilometers to disappear over the horizon. A few oaks and hickories dotted the treeline, but the vast majority of the trees were quaking aspens. Huge ones, bigger than any in Equestria, some nearly thirty or forty meters tall. True to their name, they shivered in the wind, fresh green leaves quivering and creating the rushing sound that filled the air.

The leaves whispered on the wind, seemingly stealing the warmth from the air. Inger shivered in the chilly evening breeze. This place was old. He’d known that already, of course, from Cranberry’s descriptions, but now that he was actually seeing it for himself he could feel it deep in his stomach. Before they’d even set a hoof beneath the trees, Inger already felt like an unwelcome intruder.

Pwyll was the first to break the silence. “We’ll be heading in through there.” He pointed a hoof at a slight gap in the trees, off to their right. “Although it’s getting late. I don’t recommend we move through the forest at night.”

“Agreed,” said Castor. “Last thing we need is a wheel getting caught on a root in the dark.” Putting a hooftip in his mouth, he gave a sharp whistle that carried over the entire caravan. “Circle ‘em up, people! We’ll camp at the forest’s edge tonight and get an early start tomorrow morning.”

Kaduat barked orders in Dromedarian, and the caravan began descending the hill toward the treeline. Inger found his pace slowing, as if his hooves were unwilling to approach the aspens. He stepped aside, letting the carts pass as he surveyed the forest. The eerie, whispering leaves made the hair on his neck stand up. From the top of the hill, he could see for what seemed like kilometers over the treetops. There were no mountains in the distance to provide scale, or tall conifers poking through the canopy; just an infinite, verdant sea.

“Magnificent, isn’t it,” said Tybalt. Startled, Inger turned to see his father standing beside him, gazing out across the trees. Tybalt slowly nodded, scanning over the endless green. “This forest has been here longer than the princess herself, you know.”

Inger braced himself for more griping about Celestia, but the expected complaint never came. Tybalt glanced sideways at him, then cleared his throat hesitantly. “How are you feeling, Inger?”

“Uh?” He shifted uncomfortably. “Fine, why?”

“You’ve been very quiet ever since we left Faeloch.” Tybalt idly dipped a hoof through the flowers. It was merely an observation, but Inger heard the invitation in it: You can talk to me.

“I, um…” Inger took a deep breath. “It’s Cranberry.”

Tybalt did not press, waiting patiently for Inger to gather his thoughts. With another fortifying breath, Inger continued. “We… we had a fight.” Wincing, he amended, “Are having a fight.”

His father looked down to the forest’s edge, where the mercenaries had circled up the caravan carts, and were busy erecting the tents. Tybalt slowly nodded. “Over Apricot?”

“That’s how it started,” said Inger, shaking his head. “But then it turned into… something else. She… she doesn’t like you. She said that you’re—that I’m just a replacement heir for you.”

Tybalt jerked as if struck, before giving him a dismayed look. “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know,” said Inger, with a forlorn glance. “I can’t stop thinking about what she said.”

“She’s wrong,” said Tybalt, firmly. “Whether you become my legal heir or not is up to you.”

Inger gave him a puzzled look.

“I had a scribe draft the official forms to claim you as my heir before we left Canterlot, but I haven’t filed them yet. I instructed the notary not to validate them without your verbal and written consent. The claim can’t go into effect unless you want it to.” Tybalt looked back out at the aspens. “Becoming Lord of the Rose Valley is no small thing. It would uproot your entire life. I saw what you have in Canterlot—the Firewings, your family. I would never ask that you leave that all behind to govern some place you’ve never even seen.”

Inger blinked, shocked at the thought. “Then why’d you do the paperwork?”

“I thought… if something were to happen on this trip, then I might not get another chance,” admitted Tybalt. “I wasn’t going to tell you about it until we returned to Equestria. But the choice is yours, Inger.”

“But you’re hoping I accept.”

“No,” said Tybalt, smiling. “You deserved to have the choice, that’s all. If you don’t want it, then my nephew Anderian becomes the new count. The Rose Valley will be fine.” He tilted his head. “Inger, I already have what I want. I didn’t spend all those years searching for an heir. I was searching for my son.”

“Oh,” whispered Inger. He rubbed his eyes, feeling a rush of gratitude. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

“I’m sorry,” said Tybalt, his ears drooping. “I was so excited to meet you that I’ve been monopolizing you for weeks. I can see why Cranberry is upset with me. She needs you, too.”

“It’s… not only that.” Inger cringed. “She just lost her father. And I…”

“Found yours,” finished Tybalt, with dawning understanding.

Inger hung his head. “That’s what I said to her. I told her she was jealous.”

“Ah,” said Tybalt, wincing. “Some things are better left unsaid, you know.”

Gloomily, Inger flicked his tail. “I’ll fix it, somehow. We’ve had fights before. But… this is a bad one. I’m not sure what to do.”

“Apologizing is usually a good start.” His father spread a hoof around them. “We’ve got plenty of flowers…”

Inger managed a small chuckle. “No chocolate, though.”

Tybalt smiled, but his eyes were distant. “I envy you two, you know.”

Inger raised an eyebrow. Tybalt exhaled slowly. “My wife and I weren’t always at odds. We tried to make it work. We truly did.” Sadness creased his face. “But how could we build trust on such an unsound foundation? I’d thrown her aside for Meg in less than a year. I don’t know how much Eurydice knew, but it was enough. I could see it in her eyes, when she thought I wasn’t looking.” There was bitterness in his voice, directed inward.

Unsure what to say, Inger waited. Clearing his throat, Tybalt shifted on his hooves. “You and Cranberry, what you have… It’s worth protecting. Don’t let me come between you. Don’t wind up like me and Eurydice.”

“Did you hate her?” Inger asked, before he could stop himself.

“It would have been easier if I did.” Tybalt sighed wearily. “Sometimes, when her paranoia and her attempts to control me were too much to bear, I wanted to hurt her. Badly. To dig the knife deep, and twist it: to tell her all about Meg, and that little bed with the lavender-scented sheets. To tell her that all her fears had already come true.”

Inger fluffed his wings uncomfortably. He couldn’t imagine feeling that vicious.

“But despite it all…” Tybalt’s voice was a rasp. “I did love her, as much as I wished I didn’t. Our children were beautiful and bold, the best part of our lives. Some days, when things were good, we could both pretend so hard that it seemed real. And that’s why I never told her the full truth. In the end, I couldn’t bear to cause her that much pain.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath. “We can’t choose who we love. All we can do is show them.”

Inger nodded, standing straighter with sudden resolve. “I’m going to talk to Cranberry.” He glanced around at the sea of flowers, a smile tugging at his lips. “She likes peonies…”

Tybalt grinned, though it had a tired edge. “I’d help you pick some, but it seems the sort of thing you ought to do yourself.”

“Agreed.” Inger’s smile faded. “Did… did Eurydice forgive you, in the end?”

His father stared hollowly into the forest. The breeze shifted, flowing through his dark gray mane as the aspens whispered.

At last, he answered quietly. “I never asked her to.”

* * *

The campfire crackled beneath the stars as Virgil’s violin hummed warmly in the night. Cranberry listened, entranced, as she warmed her hooves by the flames. Circled around the fire with her were the few members of the expedition who hadn’t yet retired for the night. Pwyll sat to her right, and Kaduat to her left. Beatriz was at Virgil’s side, but seemed content to let him play alone tonight. The antelope smiled as she watched Virgil’s bow dart across the strings.

The lilting violin carried the melody on its own, the lively notes dancing with the fire. Cranberry recognized the tune, and knew there were lyrics, but Pollux was too busy to sing for them. The mage was deep in discussion with his brother, both of them standing near the camp’s edge, both gesturing occasionally into the nearby forest.

With a reverberating glissando, the violin melody dove into the chorus. Kaduat, sipping from her bottle, nodded along to the tune as she twirled her knife with her free foot. “Always liked this one,” she murmured, setting the bottle down.

“Me, too,” said Pwyll, leaning forward. He was watching Virgil with rapt attention. “You know what it’s called?” When Kaduat shrugged and shook her head, Pwyll continued, “Valendriolanera. It means Lady of the Flowers. Er…” He gave Cranberry a hesitant look, but his translation to Equestrian was correct. She nodded approvingly. Beaming, he looked back toward Virgil. “It’s about the Gardener Queen, Saesa.”

From her seat beside Virgil, Beatriz laughed. “Gardener Queen? That’s a strange sobriquet…”

Cranberry nearly spoke, but caught Pwyll giving her another hopeful look. Smiling, she gave him an outstretched hoof. Go on. All yours.

“She was one of the greatest rulers in elken history. One of the few Dominion monarchs we still tell stories about,” said Pwyll, his eyes lighting up with fervor. “A few centuries after the founding of the Dominion, a terrible civil war nearly destroyed the islands. For nearly forty years, the fighting raged on. Whole forests were set aflame, fields burned and cities razed. By the fourth decade of the war, all the major claimants for the throne had perished on the battlefield, and the whole empire feared that soon there would be total anarchy.”

He looked into the fire, scratching his velvety antlers with a hoof. “No one left by that point had enough forces at their command to seize the crown. Leaderless armies of mercenaries roamed the islands, demanding tribute from villages lest they be burned to the ground.”

“Many did the same in Dromedaria’s civil war.” Kaduat sipped her rum, staring into the forest. Her eyes hardened, and her voice lowered. “If Castor ever tells me to burn a village, he can get fucked.”

Cranberry winced at the language. But then, she recalled the sight of Canterlot aflame after the griffon siege, and felt a fierce urge to agree with the camel. She settled for a vehement nod as Virgil’s song came to a close.

“I’ll second that, Kaduat,” said the griffon soberly, as he took a small bow to scattered claps from the circle. He set the violin down in its case, closing the latches. “In Alastria, I saw two villages destroyed. I still dream about it, sometimes.”

Beatriz nuzzled him. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered.

“It was my job to make the blackpowder bombs, Bea,” he said quietly. “That’s why I left. I promised myself I’d never watch another home burn.”

Looking a little subdued by the intrusion of grim reality into romantic history, Pwyll silently scratched his antlers. Cranberry reached out a hoof, gently tapping his shoulder. “Go ahead,” she encouraged, “tell us the rest of Saesa’s story.”

He nodded, and launched back into the tale. “Saesa was a common herbalist, living in a small village in the peat bogs on the isle of Talamh Bháite. It’s a nasty place,” Pwyll explained, “Full of mosquitoes and mud. One day, a group of brigands visited her town, looking for easy prey. But by the time they made it through the bog, they had lost most of their supplies, and many—including their leader, a former soldier named Talendrin—had fallen sick. They arrived in Saesa’s village on death’s door, with grumbling stomachs and weeping sores on their skin.

“Moved to pity by their pleas for help, Saesa took mercy on them. When she looked at these thugs and murderers, she saw only more victims of the war, and conceived a chance to break the cycle of violence. Instead of turning away or killing the weakened bandits, she offered them as much hospitality as her village could provide. The villagers shared their food, and Saesa tended the brigand leader’s illness with her precious herbal medicines. Against all odds, he recovered, and soon the bandits were well enough to leave. Talendrin, grateful to his savior, asked her what she wished in return.

“Saesa had only one request: that he and his troops travel with her, to unite the villages of her island; not with violence, but with the mercy and healing she had shown them. Talendrin, tired of the bandit’s life and ashamed of what he had been reduced to, took up her dream as his own, and Saesa’s first followers joined her. They traveled the length and breadth of Talamh Bháite, visiting towns ravaged by the war and helping them rebuild. They defended villages against roving marauders, always showing mercy to their defeated foes. Many of those former enemies joined the cause, eager to see an end to the bloodshed. Everywhere they went, Saesa planted gardens of herbs and lilacs. Soon, everyone knew that any village where the lilacs bloomed was under the protection of Saesa the Gardener.

“As word spread, more elk flocked to Saesa’s side. She began to wear a circle of woven lilacs upon her head—a crown not of gold, but flowers. In three short years, she united the entire island, reminding them of the pride the Dominion once instilled in their people. By this time, word had reached the other islands as well, and the smallfolk of all the isles were ready to rise up and join her, the Lady of the Flowers, the Lilac-Queen. The surviving nobility, seeing which way the wind was blowing, offered Saesa the throne.

“She accepted—on the condition that Talendrin took his place at her side as royal consort. The competing noble houses had caused the war, and she knew that selecting her husband from one of them would only further the conflict. Her rule was to be an end to the old order, and the start of a new peace.” Pwyll smiled. “And over the years, struggling together to bring the shattered elk back into harmony, she and Talendrin had fallen in love. She refused to be parted with him, no matter what the nobles wanted.

“The aristocrats were unhappy, but the war had left their resources exhausted, and they all agreed the fighting must end. And so, after forty years of war between the great families of the elk, the Dominion came to be ruled by an herbalist and a former brigand.” Pwyll sighed wistfully. “Saesa spent the rest of her reign healing the land. She seeded vast swathes of the islands with hardy tubers and wildflowers. Under her rule, the forests were protected and allowed to regrow.”

A gust rustled the aspens, drawing Cranberry’s eye back to the trees. Were any of these trees alive yet, back then? she wondered. Did Saesa walk the same paths as us? She always got a slight thrill from the thought that someone, thousands of years ago, had stood exactly where she was, seen the same sights and smelled the same spring breeze. It was like stepping back in time.

Pwyll continued, “They say the trees grew massive under Saesa’s care. There are tales of oaks a hundred meters tall, of whole cities built in the branches of a single tree. With her magic and kindness, she brought the world back to life. It was a golden age of peace and discovery.” His eyes creased with longing. “Of course, it’s all lost to time, now…”

Cranberry smiled. “Not all.”

“You’re right,” he said, perking back up. “That’s why you’ve come here, after all.” He nodded with enthusiasm. “Sometimes it seems like everyone in the Commonwealth wants to just forget about our ancestors. I know they did a lot of terrible things, but… there was good in them, too. I’m glad you and Professor Locke can see that.”

Kaduat snorted. “Sounds like she just had the biggest army, kiddo. All that healing talk is real easy to write down after you’ve won.”

“It’s possible,” Cranberry said, shrugging. “But,” she countered, “while we can’t know her motivations, Queen Saesa did save the Dominion. After forty years of carnage, she managed to restore the empire to stability in just four. It lasted for at least another six centuries after that.”

Grudgingly, Kaduat acknowledged the point with dip of her head and a raise of her bottle. “Fair enough. Not bad for a gardener.”

Beatriz stretched her forelegs and beamed at Pwyll. “Well, that was fun,” she yawned, “But I’m beat after all those hills. Come on, Virgil, let’s go to sleep.”

The two headed off for their tent, exchanging waves with Kaduat. The other mercenaries soon dispersed as well, and as Pwyll bid them good night, Cranberry found herself and Kaduat alone by the fire. “Not going to bed?” she asked the camel.

“I’ve got first watch duty while we’re in Elketh,” said Kaduat, winking. “Castor always puts me on it when we’re heading somewhere dangerous. Best to have someone who speaks Equestrian and Dromedarian on guard.” She forced the cork back into her bottle, setting it aside.

Cranberry scanned the dark trees. “Somewhere dangerous…” I hope we’re both wrong about that, she thought queasily. “Is he expecting trouble?”

“Nah.” Kaduat shrugged. “But it never hurts to be careful. Wouldn’t mind some company, if you’re going to be up late.”

“Maybe another night,” said Cranberry, standing up and dusting herself. “Beatriz was right, all those hills tired me out. Goodnight, Kaduat.”

The camel nodded, bidding her farewell with a wave of her foot. Cranberry threaded through the ranks of tents, searching for the one with a number eleven stitched on the sides. When she found it, she paused, suddenly apprehensive. Inger was standing outside, fiddling with something in his hooves.

Cranberry cleared her throat, alerting him to her presence. Inger jerked upright, hiding the thing in his hooves behind a half-spread wing. “Hey,” he said weakly.

The two met eyes and waited, as the silence quickly grew strained. Cranberry managed not to wince. Let’s get it over with, she thought, gearing up for an awkward conversation.

“Inger—”

“Cranberry—”

They stopped, blinking, and then laughed. Inger shook his head, sighing. “Me first?” She nodded. Inger fidgeted. “I, uh, made you this,” he said hopefully, offering up his mysterious item. Cranberry peered at it in the darkness, before her eyes widened. It was a small circle of pink flowers, woven together. “A flower crown,” he said, “just like the one Pwyll was talking about.”

“You were listening?” she asked, taking the little circlet of peonies with a disbelieving smile. “Why didn’t you come sit with us?”

“I… figured I should apologize in private.” He scratched a hoof awkwardly in the grass. “So, um…” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

She waited for the rest, trying to keep her face neutral. Inger rubbed the back of his neck. “When you said—I was just so angry that I… It doesn’t excuse it. What I said about your father… that wasn’t right. I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” she said bluntly.

Wincing like she’d slapped him, he slowly nodded. “Yes… I did. But I shouldn’t have said it. I was angry, and…” He huffed. “You said I was a spare!”

Cranberry looked down at the circlet of flowers hanging from her hoof, and felt an ache. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That wasn’t fair of me.”

The aspens rustled in the night, as the breeze turned. The sudden gust of wind caught the ring of flowers, yanking them off of Cranberry’s hoof and into the air. She swiped frantically after them, but in an instant they were gone into the night. “Ah!” Clutching her hoof to her chest, she looked back at her husband. “Oh, Inger…”

Inger’s wings drooped, but he gave her a tired grin. “It’s all right. I can always make you another one.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, touching his cheek. She sighed. “Look. I won’t pretend I’m not still angry. But… I don’t want to keep fighting.”

“Me either.”

“So… let’s just go to sleep, okay? We can talk more tomorrow.” She softened, hugging him. “I still love you, you know.”

“I’ve never doubted it,” he said, a little too quickly. He nuzzled her.

They parted from the hug and headed into their tent, stepping carefully over Apricot, who was fast asleep at the foot of the entrance.

Though they had separate bedrolls, the distance between them felt smaller than it had in their shared bed last night. “Night, honey,” she whispered, reaching out a hoof to touch him.

“Night,” he murmured, resting his hoof on her own, before his breathing settled into a gentle rhythm.

Soldiers, she thought dryly. She’d always envied his and Windstreak’s ability to instantly fall asleep. Staring up at the angled roof of the tent, she closed her eyes and waited.

Outside, the leaves whispered in the night. As the wind gave voice to the trees, her half-awake brain searched for words in the white noise. Her ears twitched as inky darkness swallowed her up.