They always say a criminal will return to the scene of the crime.

Was I a criminal? My actions, though cowardly, childish and not something I wanted to think about, (though inevitably ended up thinking about most of the time), couldn't be classified as truly a crime, could they? We had fled the lands when the shadows fell, I had lost the magic that the Dragon's Throat had bestowed upon me, and then, I had lost you.. Sitka. I remember coming to these sands to hunt for you. I used the spear that was now lodged amongst the feathers of my right wing, its wooden shaft sometimes brushing against the bony part of my wing, as each downstroke brought me further over the sandy shores. Was it natural for me to return here? Was it some kind of hope that I clutched to, that by being here, perhaps even by hunting for you again, you would come back to me?

But you weren't coming back to me, were you?

The wind that forever filled my wings continued to do so, the beating of my wings was minimal - I would almost admit that it made me a lazy flyer, as I was essentially able to glide everywhere. Even as the salty air removed most of the natural thermals that bounced off the warm sand as my path led over the ocean, I was able to stay aloft relatively easily, even able to dip down so that the hoof of my left foreleg skimmed across the surface of the deep blue sea. There were scattered, white, fluffy clouds in the sky, and so, there was a mottled pattern of them across my hide as well - as my father would say, I was a cloud in flight.

Though more years have passed since his death than yours, Sitka, I still mourn for him. He was everything to me, my idol, my mentor, my protector - if it weren't for you, Sitka, I would have never recovered enough from his death to continue to live myself.

But now you are gone. What am I do to?

A figure takes shape upon the shore, and at first, from a distance, I think it is merely a pegasus with his wings folded by his sides. But as my wind pushes me onwards, I see the awkward, stiff nature of the appendages by his sides, and realise they aren't appendages at all, but wood?

I was used to the strange, to the weird and wonderful. And while I took an extra few seconds to process what I saw, I accepted this with relative ease too.

He was a large steed, taller than I with a sturdy frame, made all the larger by the gear he draped across himself. He seemed focussed upon the sand mostly now, as if looking for something. It was not that outlandish, considering I was barely a yearling when I came here, spear poised, to kill whatever I stumbled across in the hopes of earning the loyalty of..

I really must stop talking to you, Sitka. I don't even know if you can hear me, wherever you are.

"What're you doing?" My voice drifts out across the expanse of water that separates me from where the steed stands upon the shore, though I swiftly close the distance with a tilt of my body and a graceful sweep of my wings. Landing lightly upon the damp sand, I openly peer at him as the feathered appendages fold down neatly to my side. Though I had accepted that he was indeed, carrying around a pile of thickened, wet sticks, I still didn't know why exactly, which led to my question. Curiosity got the better of me, and without realising it, I allowed myself to be distracted from my grief, at least for now.

@[Dragomir]