Wrena

she sucks the blood of the slain,
& the wolf tears men; would you know yet more?

Again, so unaware. Without ceremony, not even a glance over her leather-winged shoulder, she follows after him. The spot where he touched her seems to ring, if skin can do that. Not a sting and not a burn, but a ringing that can be felt and not heard. The curling waves and the sound of marsh birds dies back until only her own steps, and his, are all that she can hear in the near silence of the river’s surrounding forest. She’s never left Nerine before, never left the sea’s edge. Is she really trusting this stallion? Her skin tightens with goosebumps as the first weak gust of the twisting winter wind splashes against her. Her ears pin and her jaw clenches with each repeated snap of seemingly random breaths of wind, and they were not even at the cold part yet.

She’ll refuse as long as she possibly can, restrain from depending on him for warmth. If he allows her to stop and make her own fire, she will, but if he trudges then so does she. She is not tethered by anything real, but without notice there has indeed been something clipped into place and a shackle fastened to her. She feels it, but cannot place it. She complies with the tugging perception even with her skepticism.

“How much farther?” She bites back the shiver in her syrup-smooth voice.