He leaves, but he is never truly far away.
The island is always on his mind, anyway, try as he might to escape it. It had been their sanctuary. It was the place that emerged from the cloaking mist at his mother’s behest, her leadership tying together the old land to the new. It was the soft landing for feet and faces hardened by Beqanna’s betrayal, family and friend alike. But as much as he has grown to love their dollop of land protected by the ocean (the rollicking, tropical storms and glow of the algae under the midnight moon), it is her people he finds himself unable to fully abandon.
He returns home sometimes, and when he does, it is always under the cover of night. Sabrael never seeks anyone out; he sticks to the shadows of the avocado and frangipani trees, hugging the edges of the land as much as possible. It is slow going this way, but he finds he rather enjoys it all the more for his easy pace. He learns more about Ischia than he ever had before on these nighttime wanderings. He learns, too, that the dragon is stronger when the sun goes down – it rattles his ribs trying to free itself. Sometimes, he lets it.
Tonight is one of these nights.
His vision goes first, switching over to the superior reptilian sensory ability to see in the dark. Sabrael emerges from one of the many caves along the north shore, his claws digging into the thick wet sand before the ocean. It is a cooler night but he is not deterred. The water is still warm as he wades into the shallows, his forked tongue scenting the air for a long time before he dips his head to the task at hand. Hunting takes patience. The once-horse has plenty of time to think while remaining perfectly still. His mind stretches back into the jungle even while his toes sink further into the sand. Back where Kerberos leads and Wallace lives, back where their brood of purple-children play all over their own personal sandbox. Back where his mother and siblings and grandparents wait for him to come back, if they even care about their wayward runaway.
Fire lights in the pit of his stomach. Sabrael sees spots of red across his vision. He blinks and they move, the heat signatures of the small fish passively floating beneath him. He hasn’t moved and they are oblivious to the danger from above. In one quick, practiced motion, the dragon darts his scaled head under the waves. A jaw like a bear trap closes around the biggest of the fish that squirms helplessly in his grip. His copper head lifts above the water, both of the creature’s scales glinting from the white-bright moon. In the next exhale, he sends a jet of belly-deep fire out across the black water. It is enough to char his catch – the dragon much prefers his dinner cooked. He is about to tip his head back and gulp down his meal when he hears a sound on the beach behind him -
Sabrael