It is not the quiet sound of hooves amongst the fallen blossoms that announces his presence, but the scent of the painted man as he settles in behind her. He smells as raw as the bitterest wind, and as musky as the Earth after a day of rain. At first the peahen is alarmed by this sudden onslaught of scents; her heart pounds in time with his breath and her feathers stand erect at his touch. The rate at which her heart beats slows drastically when she turns her crown to face him, but she does not look at him for long. Orange eyes stare intently at the egg as she moves her mouth to grasp it, setting it on the petals that rest between her forelegs but leaving her gaze upon it. The intimacy between them baffles her: she does not deserve to bask in the radiance of his simple, glorious form, but when has that ever stopped her before? Why does the closeness of this stallion suddenly make him so unattainable?

The wind caresses their resting forms, urging both winged figures to succumb to sleep. She had come to this island in search of rest, and him, but now that she is here she wants neither. Molten orbs do not peer into oceanic ones, nor do they dive into their depths to search for the promises that lie within them. The maiden's senses are heightened in his silver-stained presence, yet even so she knows that she can never truly see him with her eyes, nor feel him in his warm embrace. This is not a pleasure that she will ever have, for with as much knowledge as she has in the arts of death and war, she knows nothing when it comes to her feelings for this stag. What gives you the power to make me feel this way? What gives you the right?

It is a question that will go unanswered until she is prepared to face it, but as fearsome as the vixen is she is not ready to do that. Wallowing in her own despair is not something that she is accustomed to either, and so she breaks their silence. "You have not left this place. Why?" Her inquiry may be blunt and lacking direction, but at least it is not bitter. Or draw attention to my emotions. Perhaps it is not the best opener to a heartfelt meeting between two friends -- if that's what they are now -- but at least it's something.

The peahen dispels another sigh as the tension in her body dissipates, vacating her colorful architecture to make room for more familiar emotions. She inserts another question before the winged man behind her can even address the first. "You've found some lost damsels, haven't you? I hope you're better with directions than you are with flight." As natural as it is for her tongue to deliver sarcasm, the words strike at her heart like a newly forged blade. Her hopes -- although normally malicious -- are tender. Prove my words wrong, boy. Make me proud to call you friend.


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{@[Gull]}