reunion ; jemin & mellie ; private

Dust stung his eyes and grew heady in his throat; he splayed his hooves for balance, pushed to the secluded shadow of an empty booth and wedged at the far, dingy corner of the nomad’s riverside market. His aggressor followed in his step. She was a tall, gaunt pillar, a mare with hawk’s eyes and wolf’s teeth, intent on putting owed red on her hooves. She hadn’t aged a day - her tight face was lined with the same harsh creases, her scowl still rendered permanent.

Perhaps an even deeper scowl this day. To be swindled was regrettable; to have vengeance not once but thrice denied was unforgivable.

Cursing and spitting, she moved viciously, deliberately, to position the mule dead-center between herself and a heavy cart. Jemin indulged her threats with a mild, if not bored guise. He would allow her to get the tangent from her system - it was always the same, by any rate, and it bought him enough time to scope out his surroundings.

‘...going to tear off your ears - ‘

“ - and stick them on your wall,” he finished on cue. On autopilot.

She fell silent, mouth still agape like a grotesque stone statue, as the predictability of her attempts came to light. Jemin cocked his head. “Is creativity too much to ask for?”

She was hardly humored. The hawk-mare advanced, lowering her long, swaying head to his eye level. He bumped back against the cart, tail brushing wood, and felt something - someone - flank him from the right. An iron horn pressed in on his peripheral. Halfwit number two. Of course - they always came in a pair. This was not their typical strategy, but he cursed himself for failing to catch onto it all the same.

The unicorn grasped his withers with firm teke; the hawk-mare leaned in, muzzle hovering by his ear. Her breath smelled of smoke and decay. ‘Take a good look at what you did to my friend here. Time we repay the favor.’

He spared a quick glance, enough to discern the unicorn’s severe features; a smattering of shrapnel-like scars were collected below his fetlock and upon his temple, gorged around his damaged eye; the remnants of shattered bottle-glass. Any guilt was tampered by Jemin’s knowledge that it had been a defensive ploy.

“His horn does look like a bottle opener.” He squinted. “Sort of.”

Pinned like a nailed poster was not how he typically wanted to be presented (but somehow it often was this way) and while he may have deemed the intervention unnecessary (because clearly, he had the situation under control), he wasn’t going to complain about his rescuer’s timely arrival either. The interruption, spoken in a smooth tone through confident words, shined a light on the deers that were his aggressors.

Hawk-mare snapped her head around, evidently set to fury by this most recent inconvenience ('what's it to you?'). Bottle-opener grew rigid and tense, coiling like a springlock. Only after they shifted could Jemin figure the shape of the day’s hero.

A silvery coat on a slender frame, bejeweled by elegant silks.

There was only one horse in Sedo who would wear something so impractical.

“Mellie,” he breathed - or was it a snarl?

Their conviction faltered with every step the councillor took nearer. The unicorn’s grip lessened, then fell away altogether. Like stray dogs with tails tucked, they retreated; Jemin reined in his shock and slipped them a smile of no sincerity. It didn’t reach his eyes.

They stumbled away, bumping past an uninhabited booth of woven tapestries with the threat of violence lingering on their tongues.

As quickly as they had come, they were gone. He was left to the quiet, dusted nook in an otherwise milling market, alone with a heavy sense of discomfort and a new adversity to ruffle. He gave her neither acknowledgement nor gratitude. Not a single thank you. Instead, the mule slumped against the cart, recovering his breath with the sheen of adrenaline still plastered on sharp, sharp eyes.

“Damn… damn brutes.” He shook his head, incredulous. “Damn brute with the scar. Gods, that’s tacky - wasn’t even the one to put them there, probably. Idiot must have fallen on a cactus or something…”

His muttering dissolved to silence. He risked a glance at the pale woman, as though expecting her to be gone, but there she was. Waiting. Jemin cleared his throat, smoothed back the loose hair of his fetlock, and lifted his chin; fixing Mellie in a dry, scrutinizing stare. Her guilt did not go unnoted.

It was guilt that had been simmering for four years.

“If I’d known you were a guard dog, I’d have kept you around longer.”