They are together.

For now, that is all that matters. It is a miracle, an impossibility (like trees spreading roots in the vacuum of space, leaves rustling in a non-existent breeze, greenery in a wasteland) and the bond that buds from decay and decrepitude is something to marvel at. Nymeria didn’t know how good it could feel, how pure and simple the bond between them could be: it was shelter in a sandstorm, holding hands in the rain, furtive glances and lingering touches—it was not sexual, not sensual, but romantic in the way that having that one friend could be. Utter security. Passion. Admiration. Respect. Reliability.

The days they spent together were long and strangely happy, spent finding whimsy in the forest and secrets in the fields. They were excuses for Själ to watch Nymeria, and for Nymeria to better know Själ. It was not an easy task—they had a long way to go yet—but as the sun rose and fell a little bit of Nymeria returned each day.

It hasn’t been long enough, Nym thought sadly. We need more time.

And yet she recognized that she needed to return to the Falls soon. No matter what feelings lingered (and oh, how many of them lingered) she had, determined-step-by-determined-step, recovered enough of herself to know she should advance with her goals, her ambitions. These would be best achieved by hard work and loyalty—not by frolicking in the fields.

(... You have all the time in the world, she would sometimes think: and then she would think of Volterra and Isopia and her heart would twinge. Not if you want to beat your brother.)

Someday, one day, she should tell Själ about Volterra. She had confided in Isopia; Själ was already closer to her than tükör arca had ever been... except she didn’t want to. Her mind was emotionally damaged enough without reopening old wounds.

Nym, the unicorn said to her, and Nym turned her head, encouraged by Själ’s earnest tone. There was a lovely brightness to Själ’s gaze; it forced a smile upon her mouth, upturning her lips in poetic cheer. Want to race?

Then she was off, her legs a smear of black ash against green grass. Nymeria (wolf-mare) gives chase, exhilarated by the easy rhythm of motion. Her hooves pound against soil, tearing deep scores into the earth (notes and quarter notes and eighth notes flickering up and down), and she stretches out to full length, her knees snapping high, her stride long and ground-eating. It is a pleasant excuse to shed weightier concerns, to let the mind hone in on the simple and yet important task of running straight as an arrow (no ankle-twisting, no leg-breaking, no lollygagging.)

They stop in a swirl of long hair (knotted, curled, and straight), Nymeria digging her heels in—stopping just barely in time to prevent collision. Red eyes flicker upwards, running over a dainty, opalescent unicorn; then they swing away suspiciously, coming to rest upon the king of the hill.

At her side Själ offers the king a greeting, nodding her head courteously. Nym’s brows arch upwards; her nostrils quiver, then flare, her lips drawing to a thin and pointed line. The name that Själ drew out was not the name she had been given following their spar on the beach. “Rikyn?” She doesn’t quite demand but her voice takes on a sharper note. “I didn’t think your name was Rikyn.”

Then she glances around again, caution forcing her eye to comb over her surroundings. There was a certain majesty, a certain feeling to the air—the sort that made her both uneasy and anticipatory at once.