He has not set foot in a kingdom since the Deserts. That had been lifetimes ago, and he a different man – but he remembers too well the heat of the sands, the way they rolled underfoot, never solid.
(How Craft had looked at him, her disgust turning to fear. The smell of blood on the sand under the hot, relentless sun. The crack of hoof on bone – first hers, then his.)
(He should have died in the Deserts. And he would have, if the magician hadn’t saved him.)
But this is not the Deserts. And he is a different man.
And one who would do anything for Agetta. He would walk through the gates of hell for her. He’d seen her face when news of the Gates’ reemergence came, and knew of course they would go, that it was part of her – a part he didn’t know much of, for that had been before their time.
He moves with her through the vibrant land, so lush and unlike the Deserts. He feels the faint thrum of anxiety, but it’s low, background. She does that to him, calms the shrieks to whispers, another reason to love her, to come here with her.
“No,” he says softly, “never.”
He wants to change the subject, not to dwell on his history with kingdoms of any kind.
“How does it feel?” he asks, “to be back?”
@Agetta