“Damn the gulls,” he says, smiling into the arch of her smoky neck. To think of the way they flaunt their casual, avian-freedom usually sets him on edge. Now, though, he is too caught up in Djinni to worry. He sees the slow roll of her shoulder, how she shifts towards him like a wave to the shore. But instead of scuttling away like a sandpiper, Walter awaits the crash. He tenses (his muscles quivering quietly), he lifts his head (looks into her muddy eyes because his trust lives there), but he doesn’t move away. They collide and it is gentle and soft, as if they hold something fragile between them.
It is momentous; every touch is between them.
They stand pressed together against the ocean. She speaks, and he soon forgets that they are as they are. She teases, and he focuses on her words rather than the heat they begin to share. Words strung together make a lifeline that he is always eager to cling to. But this time, he is not like a desperate man overboard. Walter reaches for conversation eventually but doesn’t blindly grope around for the rope. He eases into it, eases into the feel of her weight against him. He gives in a little more (and she leans more heavily with his shift) and learns what it means to support her.
Because coming to Nerine wasn’t only for her. Stranding himself on the shoreline was his own kind of test. He’s spent decades missing his gold-bangled mystery but has never before tried to tie her down. Perhaps, if he was grounded instead (or his feet buried in the dark sand) she would be the one to stay in the end. She would be the one to keep coming back to her wing-clipped wanderer.
In her next breath, she offers him flight again. And Walter’s honey eyes slide away from hers because he thinks of being able to leave. His hooves shift beneath him in the same instant, remembering the road. The dying breath of winter stirs over them. It dives into the caves before sweeping out towards the sea, trailing scents of damp rock and lichen as it goes. So much here, the stallion thinks, so much left to discover. The breeze is another reminder of what the Mountain still keeps from him. Before, his wings would ruffle and press tighter against him, against the chill.
Now?
Now, he has a different source of heat. A better one, too. What better test is there than temptation? “I do.” Hesitation creases his brow when he looks back at Djinni. He knows she believes in him (she must), but does he believe in himself? “I miss the skies,” he says, and his voice barely falters.
Walter
come down from the mountain
you have been gone too long