His anger boils down to a low simmer as he looks about the meadow.
His grin is a farce, because he realizes that he shouldn’t be here, that the smallest greeting by another will set him off. He knows, in the dark marrow of his young bones, that he should still be with his people. He knows that coming here is like landing on a first stepping stone away from his childhood. And as impossible as it is to even think of leaving his mother and grandparents, he imagines it will be so much easier for them now if he does. Their family has fractured, irreparably. His aunts, his siblings, his father – he will be just another piece floating on the waves away from their island sanctuary.
Sabrael snarls like a feral beast when one errant horse bumps him.
He makes to retreat just after, moving towards the shelter of familiar deciduous trees that are long into the process of dying. Fall has painted the lands as it always has, but this time as if trying to cover up the mistake of its fissuring. Sabrael is not fooled by the camouflage. Though, he sees that there are opportunities to be had in the fresh sculpting of their homes. There are those too stubborn and stupid to see it, to see past tradition and ancestry to take advantage of all they have been given. Sometimes, he hates that he is just as stubborn. Sometimes, he wishes he could just forget the Dale, forget his dad.
But his memories seem to have a life of their own inside of him. They tether him to a past he can barely remember for his youth. It comes to him in flashes like shooting stars, brilliant but short-lived. The bleeding bloom of salmons struggling upriver. The sharp shine of frost on the peaks. The warm puff of his father’s muzzle exhaling atop his head. Kha’s watchful eyes. Sela’s laugh. Sabrael makes a full picture with the pieces he has to put together. He fills the cracks in his memories with an anger that welds the rest together.
Sometimes, he can almost feel a white-hot, roaring creature growing in his chest.
He doesn’t understand this part of himself, but he embraces it anyway. Because it makes him feel powerful, somehow, like it is a showing of the man he will become. Like a second skin that he will someday slip into. For now, he can keep the heat at bay. It is difficult, but he can talk himself off of the edge, let the cool autumn air cool him. By the time the other comes, Sabrael has come out of his head. His fire-gold eyes are brooding and pensive, but no longer lit from the inside. They narrow on the colorful equine that circles him and soften only slightly when she makes no further move.
I don’t even know myself, he wants to admit, but doesn’t. He doesn’t tell her that he’s a stranger in his own skin, that something dark and dangerous resides in his core. He only just realizes why he thinks about running so often - that he fears for his family’s safety if he stays with them. The speckled almost-man looks at the spotted woman and merely shakes his head. No. Briefly, he wonders if it is Ramiel she sees in him (maybe they’d crossed paths Before). The thought is pleasant if naïve; he straightens a little anyway. “Sabrael.” He looks towards the other horses scattered throughout the territory, so many nameless faces this lady could have stopped instead. Why him? His voice is low and rumbling, neither pleading nor polite. “Why me? What do you see that seems so familiar?”
Sabrael