Let's be better strangers
Minutes pass. There's a high-pitched whine in his ears that refuses to fade and it makes the voices lingering above him sound as though they are underwater - or maybe it's him underwater, still - and it makes them sound like they are in the heart of the Mountain where the Fairies' and their magic caught him up like a fly with blood pouring from his nose, his eyes, his ears, and the only thing he can do is strike stiffly at his own head with a clumsy forehoof. It leaves a smear of rotting mud across that skinless cheek. Then, like a newborn, he is finding his feet, all power is gone, rage quieted, forgotten in the postictal haze. He doesn't remember the fine red fog of his blood filling the vengeful cavern, but he does the moments just before, the sense of something crawling, just under his skin, skittering across his brain and his blood-blackened eyes, tearing and tickling and insistent. Something of that feeling overcomes him now, as blurry eyes find cold blue ones, familiar ones. It should put him at ease, yet it doesn't - after all, Wherewolf doesn't have any friends.Trying to remember feels like screaming.
Trying to breathe feels like drowning. Saltwater streams from his nostrils every time he exhales, rusty with old blood.
Whoever owns the familiar eyes stands over him, waiting with an aggrieved sort of patience and the soot-and-salt stallion blinks and shakes his head, desperately trying to chase away the blur of eyes that are unused to the sun and the air. It is painful how slowly Aela comes into focus, and there's an irritating sense of deja vu when she does. How many times will they come together this way? How many times will he find himself again after a rage and wake up to those blue eyes staring down at him? Anyone else might feel ashamed by her condescension, angry to be made so vulnerable - and certainly, anger is a favorite emotion for him - but he, filthy, bleeding and bloodied from the red girl glaring over Aela's back, with bright crimson hairs still stuck to his teeth, grins viciously at the pair of them and swaggers drunkenly forward.
"Awful lotta eels hangin' around for dry land," he rasps, his unused voice catching harshly on the rough edges of his salt-sore throat.
