The island teems with life.
And though it is perhaps more subtle than the other lands, it is there nonetheless. It is in the struggle of the vines that coil the trees like pythons. It is in the silent but vibrant blooms of algae that illuminate the shallows at night. Life is in the rustle of a macaw’s wings as it teeters on a branch, trying simultaneously to rest and refuel on the seeds grasped between its toes. It is in the seeds that fall to the fertile, dark earth. It is life that shreds the shell, sprouts the seedling, and rises into another sentinel swaying against the trade winds.
It is there, on Ischia, on display for all.
But it is not the sort of life that interests the others. Sabrael is young but not a fool. His mother’s trail has long since been covered by banana leaves and shifting sand. He wonders, always, where she’s gone (because the island is only so big, after all, and he has all the time in the world to map every inch of it out). But he never wonders why. Faces and family are fleeting, if they are there at all. His father’s inexplicable absence clawed furrows into the meat of his heart, which time and normality mended as best they could. He thinks, now, that Ea never healed like him. Thinks maybe she could never move on, never let go of the Dale or the crown or the man.
The pensive roan pushes his way through the crowding jungle plants and transitions onto the beach. He pushes, too, thoughts away of his mother and father reuniting on her singular quest to find him, save him from whatever holds him prisoner against his family. It is childish and stupid. Life is here, he scolds himself. Life is ahead. And indeed, it is.
Tension is a vine that snakes around his own stomach, squeezing him gently at first when he comes upon the pair. It is impossible not to hear a new arrival splashing upon their border (impossible not to be reminded of how quiet it must be, nearly devoid of the chatter and movement of their own kind). This one smells of the sea, but not the same. Brine rises off of her wind-swept mane but it is a cold salt, not heated by the blistering, tropical sun. She is not of Ischia, but Ashley is. It soothes him to see the red stallion barring her movement further into their home. They have reason to worry when it comes to outsiders.
Sabrael reaches them as the magician is welcoming the mare deeper into the jungle. He locks eyes with Ashley for a moment behind Nayl – the smallest of frowns marring his angular face – before giving in to his trust of the man. “Sabrael,” is all he says at first. The vines loosen around his gut. He means to follow them, and nods his assent. The spring is sizable, yes. Sizable enough to entomb the crisped bones of an overzealous visitor, if need be.
Sabrael