The late autumn or early winter - whichever it was, he didn’t really mind - brought news on the wind. Or lack thereof, he thought. He knew Carwyn hadn’t suddenly chosen him over another, her husband as she’d said. But he liked to think that he could offer something different, a distraction - perhaps just a temporary escape from everyday life.
But when she landed in the fields of the Pampas, her grave face had told him enough. He’d experienced the consequences of such nights of escaping and pleasure before, and Carwyn looked no different than others who hadn’t particularly had reproduction in mind at the time.
Some called these events, and these children, mistakes.
Aodhán would never.
But Carwyn still sulked around the winter flowers, still obviously wasn’t happy. She’d had children before - grandchildren even - so it wasn’t the prospect of birth, he was quite sure. No, this was something that caused her shame or fear.
With a deep breath, he changed back into a horse, a few yards behind her, after she had passed by him unknowingly. A small butterfly became a larger form, the stallion soundlessly appeared but then his hoofsteps would be heard when he approached. ”What’s on your mind, Carwyn?”
from the ashes a fire shall be woken
@[Carwyn]