He shakes.

The powerful knight was gone. Not just gone... annihilated.

Macius stood there, shaking. What happened? Why? He tried to backtrace recent events.

The only explanation he found was his destruction of the altar... but he'd fixed it, right? He planned on making it better, even. It made no [sense.

It](http://sense.It) made no sense.

He was a mare. Trying to make sense of magic beyond his worst [fears.

It](http://fears.It) made NO SENSE.

************************************

The days blurred. Dawn to dusk, the stallion shadowed him.

At water, the beast pressed close, shoulder to flank, breath heavy at his side. At grass, the stallion nosed him aside, then let him graze again, never far. At rest, the weight of presence lingered — the dark eye watching, the rumble in the chest.

Macius tried to move apart. Each time, the stallion curved with him, herding. A step faster, a step slower, always the same. Custody, not pursuit.

The dance repeated: nip at the flank, shove at the hip, hot breath beneath the tail. Half-rear, hooves brushing his sides, then dropping back. Not battle. Not play. Courtship.

Nights were worst. He would lower himself to the ground, hide shivering, tail twitching. And in the dark, he heard the stallion breathe beside him, steady, close. Not touching. Never gone.

Days turned to weeks. The rhythm did not break. Each humiliation burned, then dulled, then burned again. Knights endured siege and famine; he endured this.

It was not freedom. It was waiting.