I'd love you if I only knew how to // Any

[aletta]

If Aletta was a mind-reader, if she heard Sabra speak of herself in the past tense, that is where the argument would start.

Was a Queen.

The pearlescent mare might not be one any longer but that does not mean she is no longer a leader. (What is the word Queen besides a title? Titles can be usurped and stolen. They can be altered and engineered to be whatever is politically needed.) A leader is still a leader, regardless of what path they tread. A shepherd keeps their staff even when the flock is lost; the staff means that they will come again, they can be found.

Was a Mother? Aletta has been many things - a daughter, (tentatively) a friend, a lover, a mother and grandmother as well. These are things - like Sabra - that are behind her but the silver mare would argue that they are still a part of her. Regardless of where she goes, they are defining parts of who she is. She is as sure of this as she is Mountain-born. It is something set in stone.

If only the gray mare knew of what those whispers were saying inside Sabra’s broken mind.

(Be louder than the cracks.)

The pegasus is looking up to the sky, as if the answer might be up there. Aletta’s eyes darken with disapproval (like onyx) but she says nothing. It isn’t her place to make judgement on a mare who has her head in the clouds.

Slowly - oh, so slow - Sabra rises.

Aletta reaches out slightly, as if she might offer support for the injured mare. She rises and then walks, one careful step after another. The winged mare sways but finds her support by looking ahead, by walking forward. The former Regent watches her go, left with the sinking acceptance that there is nothing she can do to help.

@[Sabra] is suffering but there is something to admire about that. If she is still walking, then she is withstanding the pain. If she is withstanding the pain, then there was the chance she could overcome it. Keep walking, Aletta thinks to the retreating figure.

The pale mare softly snorts and takes to the opposite direction. She doesn’t get far before a glint of gold catches the sun that breaks through the tree cover. Tucked safely off the trail - like a doe might might a fawn - is a girl.

Not in a grave. Sleeping, but very much alive.