She still remembers his roaring. It had shaken the air of Sylva, had cemented in Djinni her decision to keep distance between them. She’d gone back for their son eventually, when she knew that Stillwater was away, and had done her part in raising him. Keeping a child alive is not so exceptionally difficult; it is the shaping them into something a parent can be proud of is so strenuous.
Of course, Djinni would rather Ivar be happy than herself be proud, so she’s always let the little pied colt go and do what he pleases. He ended up sweet despite that, genuine and honest even with minimal guidance. The grey mare loves him and ended up proud after all. That must be what her parents felt, she has often thought. That is why they had one child after another, until Djinni’s half-dozen siblings crowded the Desert. Of course, her mother and father each had the other to turn to. Stillwater and Djinni have raised their son together, but always separately – at least physically.
She is thinking of Ivar as she looks at Stillwater, searching for the similarities that the man in front of her shares with their son. They are there, she knows, but she cannot help but look for them again. Does she hope to be disappointed? To not feel the thrill of uncertainty and desire when he’s near? If so, she hopes in vain.
He doesn’t meet her gaze as he stands, and she takes a half step back, expecting him to turn to face her. Instead, when he turns it is a turn away. Djinni is left standing alone on the lakeshore as he disappears into the darkness.
No.
She wishes it gone, and there is no more cave, just a sloping hillside and a stallion suddenly standing in the sun. She could teleport to beside him, but instead feels it better that she stomp instead. At least she takes her frustration out on the decades of leafy debris rather than his face. The grullo mare rounds him, turning so that she can face him again and pin him with glittering green eyes.
“I didn’t want you to listen to me.” She says, and despite her stomping and scowling its somehow clear that she didn’t mean listen to the question she’d just asked him. She’d wanted him to argue when she’d said to leave her alone, to fight back, to not follow orders. But he hadn’t, and she had known for sure. He was humoring her, and while he might have gotten some sort of predatory satisfaction on the night of Ivar’s conception, there was nothing else to it. She’d wanted him to read her mind, and he hadn’t, and she’s taken it to heart.
Djinni has never been skilled at emotion, after all.
“Do you even want to be here?” She asks, and in an instant the cave is back and they’re standing in the shadows while a glimmer of golden sand disappearing from her eyes. “Or are you only here because I brought you?”