but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

Movement was good. Movement was easy. He felt comfortable in silence, at ease in the dappled light as their path took them through alternating shade and sun, content to, for once, have something to do—a distinct task, so much more tangible and real than just 'going to the Threshold'. There was a set path, a set goal, and someone with him. Someone to anchor him to this world. Still, he drifted, floating along the streams of his thoughts, but there was nothing dark in them—nothing strange, just musings and observations, gaze lingering on bright flowers and ears flicking to the sound of chirping birds.

He needed more days like this—days without pressing matters, days without heartache, days when the mere circumstances of the world told him to breathe.

(To stop holding on so tight—)

He wouldn't fall. (He couldn't fall.) There was no harm (—in what?), in .. this, sunlight and red eyes and a dusty dappled skin. One black-rimmed ear flicked back and his large head was thrown to the side, peering back at her. There was no harm in her. (Right?)

And still, he couldn't truly shake that feeling in the pit of his stomach, that feeling that there was something more to this, something he hadn't thought of. Something, that would spring itself out of the darkness and onto his mind, like that age-old beast fettered to the floor of his soul.

All teeth and anger, that one.

A soft sigh left his dark nostrils as they paced on, heading west. There was no use thinking about it—and he suspected it was a remnant of his other self, the one that had been all about plots and malice and nefarious deeds. He shrugged to himself, and Irma took wing, abandoning her perch on his back and surging off to hunt. A moment later, a sleepy Diego followed her, leaving the two horses more or less alone.

Step by step the amount of willows increased, their bright spring green foliage wavering gently in the breeze. He could see a hint of the pond itself up through the trees, the sharp glitter of sunlight upon its still surface. "So, this is it, huh?" Eliaren said behind him, and he paused to look at her. It was, by far, the most expressive he'd seen her—and he could only describe it as vaguely dorkish. It brought a small smile out, a subtle curve of his dark lips. "This is it," he answered softly as she took the lead instead, picking her way through a curtain of willow leaves. "The Secret Grove." And perhaps, it was Helovia's worst kept secret. Still smiling faintly to himself he ghosted along after her, until they came out on the bank.

He didn't know what he had expected—maybe not for her to shriek and throw herself into the water with apparently glee, but .. certainly not just stand upon the bank, as she did now, looking at her own bedraggled reflection. Frowning, he came closer, absentmindedly hoping it wasn't too close for her comfort, his own white reflection appearing next to hers. Why wasn't she going in? Was something wrong? Was she having doubts about him? Did she think it wasn't safe? Maybe she was unsure of how deep it was?

He didn't know—couldn't know—and his mind ran through a couple of different sentences, but they all sounded clunky and awkward, like the words wouldn't fit his mouth. So, he did what he could—his muzzle brushed across the buckles of his leather bags, and they slid to the soft forest floor along with the crystal staff. He knew who she was: if she picked them up and ran, he'd hunt her to the ends of the earth and take back what was his.

(Still, the idea of it filled him with unease, a twinge of sour, black fear—)

And then he stepped into the water, wading out until his hooves no longer touched the soft bottom, and paddled into the center of the pond, his head raised up into the sunlight.

[ @Eliaren ]

Mauja

the white queen