HOCKETY, POCKETY, WOCKETY, WACK
He had been absent, but not really absent at all. Just distant, made himself scarce more often than not. Maybe they would forget him, maybe he in turn could forget everything all together. An odd thing to do when your name was Weir, but the roan had coped in his own way. He hadn’t even bothered visiting the field, nor had he made the trip to the fields. Those were some of his favorite things to do, some of the things he knew he should do. He couldn’t, not just yet, not now. Now, when the spring blossoms were sprouting up across the Dale and most of Beqanna. The earth smelled of everything sweet and new, but it left a bitter and sour taste in his mouth. Now, when the mares, for the most part, had miniature versions of themselves tagging after them. The sight pulled his head and his heart in opposite directions. He could have done better, should have done better in the ways he had chosen to handle the event.
He could have offered Iset a shoulder to cry on, but he did not. He should have worked through the devastation of the occurrence with her, but he had not. He could have mingled more with her, with the herd, instead of hiding in the shadows of the trees. Again, he did not. He did not do any of those things, and he was disappointed in himself.
He slowly strolled through the trees, sniffing at each sprout of new growth. Inspecting the insects and all manner of life that burst forth from the Dale. He is cataloging, deep in thought when someone speaks. When she speaks. Weirs heart climbs to his throat, and sinks to his belly all at once, his ears droop along with his head. For a moment he considers turning around, though he finds it in himself to break through the boughs. Peeking out through the growing foliage, he finds himself face to face with Iset. His amber eyes grow pained at the sight of her, and he can barely manage to greet her. ”Iset. H-hello.”