I watched Cheek stamp his little feet in anticipation for the mare’s (Lyanna’s) dropping nose, for a snuggle that was his due. When she hesitated, hovering over his head as though second-guessing herself (which, okay, honestly, it was a pretty smart move, good girl) he quit the patience and reared on his hind feeties, pressing his head against her chin and taking those goddamned snuggles for himself. Fuck her comfort levels, man, Cheek don’t give a shit about boundaries. (Nah.)

It was almost enough to distract me from where we were, and I almost smiled—but this chick was still a stranger (LYANNA) OKAY FUCK Lyanna was still a stranger and I don’t like smiling in front of them things and this was still the Edge and there was a whole shadowy undercurrent of dark, distrusting things I felt about this place, from its patron asshole god and its history that I actually know about and, at this point, maybe even its royalty. Plus, Lyanna was spitting I name I didn’t know and I wasn’t sure how to rank it in my head (or how my heart weighed it against other things, because right now the scale was busted). I don’t remember the name Tembovu.

“Uh…he’s the king, right?” I asked, kind of groping in the dark at that point, “Then yeah, whatever, I’d like to meet him.” And she was offering to let us inside the borders of the glass wall, which was gravy because the wind really was kicking my ass now that Cheek had stopped covering my back like he had been. (Grow fur.) (Shut up.) I also felt really, really bad for this gir—for Lyanna (I’m trying, okay), and I can’t even really give a straight answer why. She was just…I dunno, there was something innocent about her that wasn’t even really innocent, something about her cluelessness, because I had a feeling that the name Ophelia was something that would’ve been known in this herd (amongst several reasons). I dunno exactly how new Lyanna seemed to be in this herd, in Helovia, for that matter, and—I guess it was making me sad thinking about all the shit she was probably gonna learn. And that’s a bad time, friend. She’s gonna have a bad time.

So then she was asking for names. Which is the hardest question ever, at least for me it is, but I gotta start swallowing it back and spitting it out, for jeezus’ sake. She was offering her home to me, in the meantime. And helping me. Which, I’ve learned, isn’t something I can take for granted anymore. “I call him Chico,” I said, pointing down to the tiny cuddle-monster who was still snatching every hug and belly-rub he could get from a poor, vulnerable woman, “and Ros works with me.”

"talk" 
"Chico"