Stallion Mage: A Horse Shifter Mpreg Romance (COMPLETE)

The Press Of Time

What had Laren sensed?  The mage was concerned, but he couldn't quite get to the point of worry.  It warred with the glow of health throughout his body.  

He wanted to follow after Laren, but his instincts told him to graze on this fresh grass that his magic had provided.  It would disappear soon, and it would be wasted if he did not eat it.

He shifted and bent his head to eat the precious, clean food.  At least his magic had stayed under control.  Maybe it's because of Laren.  He channels Nature's Order, after all, the mage thought.    

After he had eaten his fill, he began to walk home.  He found the autumn woods peaceful as he passed the rustling, dry-leaved trees.  Grateful that he could stay on four legs, Alvarr took his time.  

The earth did not respond to him as it once did.  This was good, he thought.  The season had turned at last.  It was against Nature's balance to make fruit grow in winter, or freeze a stream in summer-

Oh, no.  The mage stopped, his legs locking at the knee.  Alvarr had been mistaken. Inside the protection of the woods, his power had changed nothing.  But just outside, the earth rippled in dips and peaks like water suspended in time.  

It was both beautiful and terrible.  Alvarr's stomach clenched.  He didn't want to have the power to shape the earth; he just wanted to live his life.  

A bird sang a shrill song close to his ear.  To the mage, the whistle sounded disappointed, as though the bird were the voice of Nature scolding him.  He bowed his head.  Whether it was Nature, or just his conscience, Alvarr knew he was being selfish.  

His power was good, wasn't it?  Hadn't he saved lives?  Hadn't he cleansed land and made it so that his people could eat?  To reject it now was to be a coward.  I just need to get control.  

If he got control, there was no need to be afraid that he could turn into Alvi, and he could help his people thrive.

As soon as he set one foot out of the woods, a wave of illness hit him.  If he hadn't been on four legs, he would have fallen.  Laren! he called out in his mind, stumbling forward.  All the fresh grass he had eaten churned in his stomach.

Was this what Laren had sensed?  Breathing through his mouth, the mage tried to calm himself.  It's not far back to camp.  You can rest in the healing tent in man-shape.  

He struggled over the ripples in the earth that his magic had left, just putting one foot in front of the other.  How he wished Laren were with him, though the leader would not be able to help.  

Is this what 'mates' is?  The desire for companionship outside of mating?  From the beginning, the mage thought that a mate was not something dictated by nature, but of choice.  

Saliva dripped from the mage's mouth.  He didn't dare look up to see how far he still had left to go.  He wasn't ill, not with anything like a bad herb or mushroom.  This has to do with the land, I know it.  He could only hope the Elders found an answer in what he had brought back from the old civilization.

When Alvarr returned, he found the camp churning with stallions, all ill at ease.  Barron trotted up to him.  "Where have you been?" the slender stallion asked.

"I am ill," Alvarr said, then shook his mane.  "No, it's the land.  It's making us all ill."

"I know," his friend said.  "Alvarr... Cantril came back, and he's... he's not himself."  Barron turned his head away for a moment.  "I know you are not-"

"I'll help," Alvarr said.  Despite his feelings of shivery nausea, he and Laren were the strongest against the land's taint.  And he had not forgotten that Cantril was one of the people who had been willing to listen to Alvarr, not just reject him out of fear.