The ruins of the chain tower smouldered in the night. It was still standing, mostly; only the top three floors had blown apart, strewing stones and bodies around the upper reaches of the cliff.
Rye was lost in the wilderness. He remembered the cold, white, endless expanses of the north, that sense of complete dislocation and displacement. Compasses and maps were no use in that infinite waste; orientation required knowing where you were, and when you were that far in, you were nowhere.
He thought he’d eventually found his way out, but now the wilderness had returned, crowded inside him instead of all around. Turning, searching, on and on he stumbled, seeking escape.
Slowly, he dragged his hooves through the graveyard of masonry. Cracked shields and snapped spears littered the dirt. The dead lay half-buried by rubble, many burned beyond all recognition, but even a camel reduced to a mass of black charcoal was distinguishable from a pony. Rye moved sluggishly from body to body, checking each in turn. If she was here, he would find her.
The next body was no camel. Rye’s pulse quickened, a little speed returning to his steps. He could see the hoof sticking out from under a large, flat piece of rubble, but it was so covered in soot that he couldn’t tell what color the owner was. Leaning up against the stone, he heaved.
He wasn’t strong enough. Pressing his shoulder harder against the stone, Rye grunted, but the rock refused to budge. His hooves scrabbled for purchase on the ground, sliding in the dust. “Move, damn you,” he breathed, bracing against it with his back. Straining with all his might, he felt the stone shift briefly, but then it settled even further onto the body below.
Sagging, he slid down the rubble to sit beside the hoof. Reaching over, he brushed it, his hoof coming away black with soot. Beneath the layer of black, he saw light and dark stripes. He sighed, half-disappointed, half-relieved. He let his head fall back against the stone.
Why had they left that island with the hot springs? He wanted to go back in time, to scream at his past self, to tell him not to leave, not to go back, not to ruin their happiness…
After a few moments, he got up to resume his grim task. He’d forgotten to keep count of how many bodies he’d checked, but he had to be nearing two dozen.
If he’d known that going to the tower meant her death, would he still have let her? You couldn’t have stopped her, even if you wanted to, he thought with an unwilling smile. When that mare sets her mind to something…
Had the sacrifice been worth it? He couldn’t tell from up here, and he found that he no longer cared. It wasn’t a very heroic sentiment, but he’d rather Tyria had lived than the Marquis, if that had truly been the choice offered. So what if Breyr conquered the islands? He was no Shrikefeather, he wouldn’t begin a wholesale slaughter…
No, but the Zyrans would suffer terribly under him. Rye kicked the dirt. He wished he could turn off that stupid, rational voice in his head. It kept cutting across his grief, reminding him that Tyria had been willing to give her life for this, that she wouldn’t want him to regret it. Somehow, that just made it hurt worse.
Rye reached another body, the charred remains of another camel. This one had a water flask on a strap lying beside his head. Rye had the nauseating realization that some of these soldiers had survived the explosion and the fall… at least for a few minutes. Had Tyria died like this? Her skin seared, that beautiful brown mane burned to ash, croaking desperate pleas for a drink…
He sat and buried his head in his hooves, running one through his disheveled mane. Volcanic ash tumbled out, raining onto his soot-stained robes.
Lifting his head, he cried, “Tyria! Tyriaaaaa!”
There was no response. He was almost grateful. At least she wasn’t still suffering. The yell had made him realize how parched he felt. It had been hours since he’d had a drink.
“Sorry,” he said quietly to the camel, reaching down and sticking his hoof through the strap on the flask. “You don’t mind, do you?”
He waited for some signal from the camel’s absent spirit, but found none. Sighing, he lifted the metal flask and took a sip. Amazingly, the flask’s insulation had withstood the explosion and the time. The water within was cool and fresh. He held the flask a bit more respectfully.
From up here he could see both the entire harbor and the ocean outside. The pirate ships had begun pulling away as he’d reached the top of the cliff, to his vicious satisfaction. A taste of your own medicine, snake.
The camel ships below had all been destroyed. Their forces were still in the city, now trapped, but it would still mean days of hard fighting to remove them all. Zahira had her work cut out for her, assuming she managed to stop Breyr.
Rye stared down the cliff at the rocky shore below, taking another drink. Detective Zanaya thought he was suicidal. Was she wrong? He wasn’t quite sure. It was hard to tell what he wanted, lost in the wilderness.
He was finding it difficult to think much about the future. Moment to moment, he swerved from feeling driven to feeling nothing. He had no obvious way forward, no real goals, beyond finding Tyria. After that… could he return to Equestria? Resume his life as if he’d never met her? I don’t think that’s possible.
Below, movement in the bay drew his eye. The Adder’s Bite was pulling away from the pier, its sails fluttering down from their yards.
Rye’s eyes locked on the ship, his body still as a stone. Is it Zevan? Did they escape the tower, somehow?
Is she with them?
The warmth of hope was immediately doused by a cold splash of rationality. Tyria would never leave while the fight was still going on.
It wasn’t Zevan on that ship. There could only be one pony leading that retreat. Zahira must have forced him to flee, after all.
Rye stared. His choices had led them here. All those years ago, on that frozen winter plain, he’d begged Eberhardt not to kill the snake. He’d worked hard to avoid any more bloodshed, to break the endless cycle of violence that drove Sleipnordic politics in bloody circles. All he’d wanted was peace…
And now, thanks to his mercy, hundreds—thousands—of Zyrans, camels, and others had lost their lives to Breyr's plotting.
He squeezed the flask between his hooves. That olive branch on his flanks had caused more death than he ever could have as a soldier on the field. Maybe it was time to stop trying for a diplomatic solution to everything. There was one quick, obvious course of action that would stop this from happening ever again.
Breyr had murdered countless scores in his quest for power. He’d never stop. If he escaped now, they’d just be at this again in another four years, with more dying to feed the snake’s self-centered ambition. More cities burning. More Tyrias, dying needlessly. The flask creaked under his trembling hooves, starting to bend.
He wandered in the wilderness, just like Breyr had during his exile. The Nordpony had survived by clinging to his need for revenge, using that single-minded focus like a lifeline out of the frozen wastes.
Breyr’s silky voice echoed in his mind. Remember, Rye. Hatred keeps us alive.
Rye’s hooves released their pressure. Well. Time to see if he was right.
He stood, shoving the flask into one of his inner robe pockets. I’d hoped that I’d never have to kill anyone ever again, he thought. The cloud in his head had been wiped away, his thoughts now crystal clear. But we all make sacrifices for the greater good.
The attempt would get him killed, he knew. But before it did, he would clean up his mistake.
The ship had nearly reached the mouth of the bay. Rye spread his wings and sprinted for the edge of the cliff. Hooves thudding on the ground, he inhaled deeply. The edge arrived, and he leaped into the air.
The wind rushed past him, his robes flapping wildly. Rye’s heart lifted in sudden melancholic joy. At least I get to fly one time before I die.
Using his wings, he steered his fall, bracing his hooves together in the diving posture Tyria had taught him. The water rushed up from below, a thousand shards of glimmering moonlight twinkling at the surface. Rye breathed out hard, closing his eyes against the coming impact.
He sliced into the water like a spear. The water ripped at his robes and mane with the force of a gale, swiftly retarding his downward plunge. Rye opened his eyes against the stinging seawater, twisting to head back for the surface.
Floundering into the air, he inhaled with a woosh. He treaded for a moment, looking around, before he spotted the dark hulk of the Adder’s Bite as it passed through the gap in the cliffs. Rye kicked, setting off toward it. He met the ship as it left the harbor, grabbing one of the dangling ropes that hung from the sides, the only remnants of the lifeboats they’d slashed free for the Zyrans.
This is a stupid plan.
Rye clung to the rope for a few seconds, breathing heavily. I don't care, he decided.
Taking another moment to gather himself, Rye began the long, difficult climb.
* * *
Adjusting her hat, Tyria gazed out at the island. “How’s it going, Berin?”
Berin ducked beneath the water. The seaponies’ clicking and chirping could carry for miles underwater; having him at her side was like her own personal carrier pigeon service. He returned to the surface after a few moments with a pleased expression. “Ish going well. Meri saysh they haf save’ near’y two hun’ret sho far.”
Tyria smiled, but there was tension behind it. “Good. Have any of them entered the bay?”
“Naw yet. Th’ onesh ouside arr in morr dang’r.”
“True enough.” Tyria tapped her hoof nervously on the side of the boat. “It’s killing me not to know what’s happening in that city, though.”
“Wan’ me to take you inshi’e?”
Tyria grimaced. “Part of me does, but if you do, I’ll probably just run into the camels or the pirates.” She sighed, idly twirling the remaining oar in a circle. “I just wish I could get a sign of how the battle’s going.”
“How bou’ tha?” asked Berin, pointing.
She looked up to see the outline of a ship, leaving the bay. “What the—” Her eye widened. “That’s the Adder’s Bite!”
“Shomeone you kno’?”
“Berin,” she said, securing her hat and the binding on her head, “how many seaponies can fight out of the water?”
“Mosht of the onesh like me,” he said, ruefully clacking his claw.
“Call them all,” she said, hefting the oar. “I think it’s up to us to finish the job tonight.”
* * *
Breyr stood at the aft railing of the navigation deck, staring backward at the shrinking island. He hadn’t moved since they’d set sail, not even a twitch. His curly, black mane billowed in the wind as his thoughts churned.
“Boss?” One of the zebras cleared his throat. “Boss, where are we heading?”
Restraining a scream, Breyr’s eye quivered. “Bring us alongside the Copperhead. Captain Merrick had the largest remaining crew. We’ll transfer them over to the Bite and leave this godforsaken rock to the Zyrans.”
“Uh, boss…” another zebra coughed. “I don’t see him. I don’t see any other ships out here.”
Breyr’s head turned like a rusty valve. “What.”
“I mean… look around, I don’t see ‘em!”
He felt a spasm in his jaw. He was not hyperventilating. That tightness in his chest was just soreness from falling out of that window. Breyr scoured the open sea, his eyes flying wildly back and forth. “Where did they go?”
“Well,” said the helmszebra dryly, “if I had to guess, I’d say they came up with that leave everyone else to die plan a little sooner than us.”
Breyr wheezed. “They—they can’t just—” Suddenly, he put two and two together. “ZEVAN!”
The zebras all recoiled at the sudden scream. One lifted a hesitant hoof. “Boss, it’s not all bad—we’ve still got the loot in the hold. We can sell that off and live pretty well for a long—”
“Shut up.” Breyr swiped a fleck of foam from his lips. “Set a course for Pyle Island. Zevan’s surely heading there to steal our entire stockpile. We’ll intercept him and lash his head to the mast.”
“A-Aye, boss,” nodded the helmszebra nervously. She turned back to the wheel, her back stiff with awkward anxiety.
“The rest of you, back to work.” The zebras scattered to tend the ship, or simply to flee his presence.
Breyr strode down the stairs, letting his hoof drift along the rail. He walked along the port side of the ship, watching the waves below. “Strudel,” he muttered. “Strudel, Zevan, Strudel, Metrel, Strudelstrudelstrudel…”
A thud from the other side of the deck drew his attention like a lightning rod. Breyr’s head whipped around to see a yellow-robed pony, dripping wet, taking a swig from a metal flask. The pegacorn resealed the cap, then tossed the flask away with a clatter, wiping his mouth. His eyes stayed locked on Breyr’s.
Breyr’s mouth half-smiled, half-slackened. Was he hallucinating? “Ha!” He blinked, but Strudel didn’t disappear. “Haha!”
The pony began walking toward him, his robes fluttering around his gray hooves. His head was set forward, an expression of absolute calm on his face. Only his eyes burned.
Bursting into laughter, Breyr bent double. “Ahahahaha!” He pushed against the deck, trying to stand. Around them, the few zebras on the ship made noises of alarm. Breyr swiped a hoof through the air. “Back!”
They paused, falling silent. Breyr watched Rye approach, giggling. “Oh, ohohoho, oh, no, no, no no… you can’t be serious…”
Rye’s first strike took him in the gut. Breyr toppled to the deck, still laughing. He clutched his stomach, taking the second kick in the face. He felt blood fly from his mouth, splattering across the deck.
One of the zebras rushed forward, but Breyr screamed, “BACK!”
The zebra froze, and Rye paused, giving Breyr an opening. He whipped his legs around, knocking the ambassador over. Rolling back onto his feet, Breyr stood, giggles still burbling from his throat like hiccups. “Is this the plan, Rye? Just walk onto my ship and kill me?”
Rye snarled, leaping up from the deck toward him. Breyr took the hit in the chest, grabbing the pegacorn and whirling him around. He released Rye and sent him flying across the deck. “After all the good times we’ve had, you’re just going to end it without even saying goodbye?”
His crew relaxed, seeing that he apparently had the situation under control. Breyr tilted his head and spat blood onto the deck. “Oh, Rye… I promised myself I wouldn’t play with you anymore, but it’s just so hard to stop…”
He skipped forward and slammed his hoof into Rye’s side. The pegacorn let out a grunt, but instead of recoiling, he seized Breyr’s hoof with both forelegs and yanked. The two fell to the deck, wrestling.
Breyr didn’t even feel the pain of the hoof blows anymore. He grabbed Rye’s foreleg and twisted, waiting for the bone to feather and crack. Rye growled and decked him in the jaw. Breyr rolled off of him, seeing stars. Rye staggered upright, striding toward him.
“What’s the matter, Ambassador? No words left?” Breyr sat up, wiping blood off of his cheek. “You seduced my best captain into betraying me, why stop now? Maybe you can convince me to turn myself in.”
A contemptuous uppercut sent him flying backward. “I have nothing left to say to you,” rasped the pegacorn.
He’d goaded the half-breed into breaking his silence. Breyr grinned. He sprang to his hooves again, hopping lightly back and forth. “I see you’re taking my advice about hatred to heart, Rye. How’s it feel? To want someone dead with every thought? Doesn’t it make you feel alive?”
He circled the pegacorn, backing out of reach whenever Rye approached. “Do you think your lady friend would approve? I do. She had a lot more fire in her than you.”
“Shut up.” Rye lunged, landing a glancing blow on Breyr’s shoulder. The Nordpony blocked the following blow and retreated again.
“Oh, I see; this is the tranquil rage of a grieving lover, isn't it? After all, Miss Metrel must be dead. If she weren’t, she’d be here with you.”
That got a reaction out of him. Breyr dodged the roaring hoof strike, pursing his lips. “Oho! If you want to hit me, Strudel, you’ll have to stop holding back.” He ducked another furious punch, checking the pegacorn with his shoulder and shoving him backward. “Unless this flailing really is the best you have to offer.”
Rye whirled, flinging a hoof with plenty of force but little skill. Breyr easily avoided it again, dancing back just out of reach. “I suppose that answers that. This is pitiful, really. What, did you think that because I prefer working through proxies, I don’t know how to get my hooves dirty?”
That’s enough, he thought, suddenly sober. Go for the throat. He let out one last giggle, sighing. “You seem to have forgotten that I grew up in Sleipnord.”
He drove a hoof into Rye’s stomach, folding the pegacorn like wet paper. With a heave, he sent Rye rolling down to the ground. “Even the peasants are taught to fight from their first birthday, you soft Equestrian fool. I went on my first Aurelisk hunt before you were even born.”
Rye stumbled forward, drunkenly swinging another hoof. Breyr simply stepped aside, slapping him in the back of the head. The pegacorn collapsed, barely holding himself up from the deck with his forelegs.
Breyr leaped at him, swinging his head down to bite. He sank his teeth into Rye’s shoulder, drawing the taste of blood and a scream of surprise and pain. The pegacorn jerked his head back, and his horn jabbed the bridge of Breyr’s nose. It was enough for him to loosen his grip, and the pegacorn flopped away. Breyr bit down again, but only got the pegacorn’s robes. The worn, threadbare cloth finally gave way, tearing down the length of the garment.
As Rye scrambled away, Breyr found himself with a long, bloodstained yellow rag in his mouth. With a shrug, he began wrapping it around his hooves like a pair of cuffs. “Well, Rye, I’m afraid our time together is at an end.” He yanked on the cloth a few times, pulling it taut, and was pleased that it held together.
Rye was holding his shoulder right above that silvery mark of Breyr's branding, revealed by the torn robes, and gasping for air. Feebly, he crawled with one foreleg toward the mast. Breyr swung forward, bringing his hooves over Rye’s head. He pulled back, the yellow fabric catching across the pegacorn’s neck. Breyr dragged Rye’s head up to his chest, crushing the air from his throat.
The pegacorn struggled, wriggling under the garrote, but Breyr was far stronger. He watched with a growing smile as Strudel’s twitching grew more intense. The ambassador’s eyes spun wildly. His hooves clawed at the scrap of his own robes as they strangled the life from him.
“What in the HELL—” yelled one of the zebras, and Breyr was momentarily distracted. He looked up to see a huge, dark shape clambering over the side of his ship. His jaw opened as the moonlight revealed the creature, a hideous sea-monster with the torso of a pony and the body of a scorpion. The zebras recoiled, screaming.
More monsters flooded over the sides of the Adder’s Bite on insectoid legs or slithering snake scales. They crashed into the pirates, a nightmarish whirling of claws, stingers, and teeth.
Breyr returned his gaze to the pegacorn dying in his hooves, and tightened his grip. “Not this time, Strudel. I don’t care what demons you summon, I’m going to kill—”
“Viridian!”
He had barely begun to turn his head when the flat blade of an oar slammed into his face. Breyr flew backward, the cloth unspooling from his hooves. He landed heavily, scrabbling for purchase on the deck. Looking up, he gaped at a sight just as bizarre as the monsters.
There stood Tyria Metrel, soaked with blood and wearing Zevan’s ridiculous hat. She had a massive oar cocked over her shoulder, with one hoof draped over the handle. Her lone, shining green eye flared with fury. “Try fighting someone your own size.”
He’d gone mad. That was it, after all. The monsters, Metrel, maybe even Strudel, none of it was real. None of it mattered. He’d lost Zyre, he’d lost his fleet, he’d lost Sleipnord, and now apparently he’d lost his mind. Breyr laughed brokenly. “All right, then.” He stood, a manic grin on his face.
He charged. Metrel watched him come, her eye narrowing. With a sharp breath, she slammed the handle of the oar onto the deck, so hard that it snapped, leaving a foot-long piece of wood hanging by a strip. She whipped it upward, the broken piece ripping free and flying at him. Breyr batted it aside, leaping into the air to come down at her.
Tyria flung herself back onto her haunches and whirled the oar with both forelegs, aiming it upward. Breyr slammed down onto the shattered end of it, feeling the shaft pierce his shoulder. With a war cry worthy of a Nordpony, Tyria shoved herself up, hind legs straining as she rammed the impromptu spear deep.
Breyr let out a strangled gasp for air, his vision filling with Metrel’s face. She glared at him with one eye, letting the oar drop. Breyr sat stiffly, his entire torso held rigid by the wooden shaft. “Ah—ah…”
He felt the mast against his back, and leaned his head back against it. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. “M…Metrel…” he burbled, his vision growing fuzzy.
She gave him no answer.
* * *
Rye managed to stand, filled with shock. “Tyria,” he whispered.
She turned to him, and gave a tired smile. “Hi.”
The darkness in his head vanished, like fog burning away in the sunlight. A bright beacon shone on the edge of the wilderness, beckoning.
They raced across the deck toward each other, enveloping each other in their hooves. “Oh, Tyria, you’re alive, you’re alive!”
She didn’t say anything, but squeezed him tight. Rye leaned his head to the side, the sight of all that blood taking him like a punch to the gut. “You’re hurt…” He reached up a hoof to touch the dirty green fabric across her eye.
Tyria intercepted it with her own hoof. “Hey, now…” She gave a weak grin. “I couldn’t let you pick up all the scars.”
He felt tears springing up at last. “I’m so sorry, Tyria, I shouldn’t have let you go alone—”
“I wasn’t alone,” she said wearily, still with that crooked smile. “Zevan and the rest of them saved my life. And gave Viridian a good kick in the ass while they were at it.”
“We’ve got to get you to a doctor. A good one. Once the Equestrian fleet arrives, then maybe with magic, they can…”
“Rye.” Tyria brushed his cheek. “The only thing that can heal wounds like this is blood magic. And we’ve both seen the price of that.”
He looked around at the mutated seaponies, who had cleared the deck entirely of pirates. He was too grateful to even wonder where they'd come from. But their twisted forms were stark reminders of the cost of that fountain. The memory of that mural, the thousands of sacrifices… His lips quivering, he nodded. “You—you’re right.”
Tyria let him go, sitting heavily on the deck. “Berin,” she called, “we’ll be fine from here. All of you should go back to helping Meri. Drop the anchor on the way out, would you?”
The seapony was holding on to the back of another with scorpion legs. “Alrigh’. Goo’ luck,” he said, with a bow of his head.
The mutant seaponies dove over the sides of the ship, vanishing back into the water. One smacked the anchor winch on the way over, and it swiftly unspooled chain into the water with a splash.
“I figure we can wait here until the Equestrians show up,” said Tyria, her shoulders slumping.
Rye knelt to help her stand, relief warring with terror. “Come on. Let’s get you to that bed in the captain’s cabin.”
“Mmm. Good memories in there.” Tyria tried a sultry smile, but it was broken when she winced and pressed a hoof to her eye. “Ah.”
“You need to rest, Tyria.” The last time he’d seen a pony in a condition this bad had been… his mother, actually, right after the Battle of Canterlot. That she was still alive was encouraging. Still, his heart ached with worry. “Come on.”
“Wait.” Tyria held his hoof, staying upright with visible effort. “Rye, I don’t know if we’re going to get another chance, so…” she inhaled, her eye opening with… anxiety?
Rye almost laughed. What do we have left to be anxious about, at this point?
“I think—I think I want to get married,” she said, with an adrenaline-spiked smile. “How ‘bout you?”
He kissed her hard, drawing a surprised “Mmf!”
“Yes, Tyria, yes,” he breathed, lifting his head. “I was going to ask you three days ago, but you said to wait till we were somewhere more… romantic.”
Together they looked around the apocalyptic scene on the deck of the ship and burst into laughter.
“Oh, oh, this hurts,” she said, wincing even as she shook with mirth. “Goddess, I’m a mess.”
“Yes, but you’re my mess,” he said proudly. “Come on, I’ll help you.”
He shepherded her across the deck, avoiding the bloodslicked patches where the pirates had fallen. Together, they entered the cabin, which appeared untouched from how they’d left it a lifetime ago that morning. Rye helped Tyria roll into the bed, piling pillows under her head to keep it elevated. He set her hat—wasn't that Zevan's?—on the desk.
Sitting beside her on the bed, he stroked her hoof, smiling to hide his concern. “By the way… ‘try fighting someone your own size’? Really?”
She laughed again. “I was too angry to think of anything witty off the cuff. And, well, you are rather small.”
“Not where it counts.” He winked.
“Ugh, stallions.” Tyria rolled her eye, then winced.
Rye coughed. “Hey, I was talking about my adventurous spirit.”
“Mhm.” Tyria closed her eye, and her breathing slowed. “Do you have any water?”
He slid off of the bed. “There’s a flask out on the deck. I’ll be back shortly.”
Closing the door behind him, he strode back out of the cabin. Casting around for the flask, he spotted it by the railing, and began walking toward it.
“Stru… Str…” came a gurgle, and Rye paused in shock. The gray mass at the base of the mast twitched.
Picking up the flask as he passed, he approached Breyr. The Nordpony was a grisly sight, with half an oar sticking out of his chest. His brilliant blue eyes were unfocused, staring into nothing.
Rye came to a halt before him, gazing down at the Thane of Hoofnjord. He wasn’t sure what to feel. Hate? Vindication? Pity?
Breyr’s eyes wavered back from wherever they’d been looking, focusing on his face. The pony’s features creased with anger. “Y… you… thief…”
Rye looked into the dying stallion’s eyes and shook his head. “I can’t steal something that wasn’t yours to begin with, Breyr.”
“Zyre… should be mine.” Every word clearly cost the Nordpony great effort. “I built… myself… from nothing. I was going… to be king. You don’t… deserve to win.”
Rye sat in front of him, folding his hooves, sighing. “When we first met, I thought you were a friend, Breyr. I wanted you to be. Even now, even after all you’ve done, I wish that stallion I’d met had been real. All this effort you’ve put into Zyre… the camels, the pirates, all that blackpowder… if you’d used that kind of influence for anything but yourself, you could have changed the world, Breyr.”
“Wanted… to… change it…” he said, holding the oar shaft with a hoof. “Wanted… to rule it…”
“But that’s all,” said Rye, frowning. “If the only thing you live for is yourself, then when you die… that’s the end of everything. You’d still have ended up here, Breyr, even if you’d won. Ten, twenty years from now, you’d lie on some deathbed, spitting and cursing at your own mortality. All those people you killed… it still wouldn’t have been worth anything.”
Breyr’s eyes twitched in fury. “Do you… expect… an apology?”
“I don’t expect anything from you, Breyr.” Rye looked up at the moon, which was nearing the horizon.
“I’m dying,” spat the Nordpony, straining against the oar. “But I’ll… always… be inside you, now. That brand… her eye… whenever you look… at them… think of me, Rye. Remember that… pure, beautiful, dark… anger… and think of me.”
“No, Breyr. I've thought about you for long enough. I’m ready to move on with my life.” Rye touched his ear, smiling faintly. How was a wedding band going to feel on it?
Returning to the present, he sighed. “You were half-right. Hate'll keep you alive, but… it’s static. Like treading water. You need something more than that to sail. Your country, or your art, or your passion...” He looked at the cabin with fondness. “Something bigger than just you.”
Breyr was quiet. His eyes softened. “Maybe… you’re right… Strudel. But… too late… now.”
“Yes… Yes, it is.” Rye proffered the flask, dangling from its strap around his hoof.
The Nordpony reached out with difficulty to take it, despair in his face. With jerky motions, he brought it to his mouth and drank. Letting his hoof fall to his side, he looked upward. “Do you think… the Valkyries… will find me… so far south?” His bright blue eyes had gone glassy and dark.
“I don’t know.” Rye stood, and reclaimed the flask. Stuffing it in his pocket, he turned to head back into the cabin. “Goodbye, Breyr.”
He paused at the door. Then he entered without looking back.