Яikyn

She stammers that she is cold, almost as if she is ashamed of herself.  It makes the discomforting notion of having to keep her from freezing to death a little less horrible for a moment, a smile fleetingly crossing my lips.  I nod when she admits to being from the south, having figured as much, what with the wings and the linen thin pelt.

‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ she says, and I want to laugh, but don’t.  She should be troubled, if night falls before the snow quits.  It’s really chilly when it’s dark out up here.  I look between me and the stone wall to my right, and the curtain of emerald to the left.  There is enough room for her between me and the curvature of the stone if I scoot over a little bit, but just barely so.

Her wings will probably be touching me.

I only remember touching Aithniel’s a few times.  They were slick, glossy, like leaves, but they rustled and parted, left a sensation of tingling touch behind that had been incredibly unpleasant.  I hadn’t said as much to my Thistle Sister.  It would have only hurt her more than she already had been, by those around her – but this filly is not Aithniel.  She is some strange girl, and she doesn’t even have a crown like my sister does.

I don’t want to touch them.  I really don’t want their foreign, cold masses pressed against my side.  The thought of accidentally touching the longest of them with the curve of my tail makes my stomach clench and throat feel sour.

Do I really want her to be cold, either?  I guess not.  

Whatever may have come of this trail of conversation is broken when she rouses my temper, lost entirely as it subsides and we exchange names.  Aelin, she calls herself, and it’s a pretty name, flowing like Aithniel’s is.  Maybe all birds have musical names.  It would make sense, I guess.

Some weird word comes out of her mouth as I almost drift away, some weird word that for whatever reason reminds me that she’s from the south, and that there is a blizzard out there.  Her pretty song is pretty though, and I’m quite susceptible to things like that at this moment.  Shaking my head swiftly to clear the grogginess for a moment, I shuffle over with my wounded leg raised, making more room so that she doesn’t have to touch me (she probably will).

"Come stand here, out of the wind," I dictate, arrogantly demanding despite my weakness, aureate horn pointing to the space between myself and the stone, "wake me if the storm stops."

Whether she listens or not, I don’t care; she can be cold if she wants to be.  I’ve offered all I can.  It isn’t but a second or so before her humming has me again anyway, and I’m asleep, in a soft dark world.

---

Ahead of me is a stretch of grass which reaches out over the ocean.  The precipice plunges down into the steely blue water, the overhanging grasses tousled by a wind that almost whispers encouragement as my legs begin to charge towards the edge.  

A part of me tells me that this is only a dream, but it is too realistic to be just any dream; the grass tickles my ankles, the wind tangles wildly through my mane.  Birds cry overhead in a warm, spring sky.

I should be afraid, is a cursory wonder as I careen towards this jutting brim of land, knowing that I will die if I fall…

But I’m not afraid.  I gather speed, confidence rising in my chest, the strangest knowing that I will be just fine filling me as the edge comes closer, and closer.  Behind me through the croon of the wind I hear hoof beats; they are not mine.

The edge looms.  Instead of sliding, stopping, feeling the breathless rush of adrenaline surge through me as I evade death, my body leaps outwards, out into the blue expanse of sky.  Dark shadows appear to either side of me.

I turn to look upon them, and find wings, glossy and black, their ends rich cocoas tapered with gold.

Fear does find me now, where it did not before.  I almost plummet from the sky because I forget that this dream body knows what these are, and how to use them; I almost plummet because its horrifyingly real, and a dark voice deep, deep inside of my head is screaming that I am condemned.  

But, somehow, with the strange, peculiar magic of a dream, I do not plunge into the playful ripple of the sea below, but find myself again flying, the notion that there is someone close a distant song, a hummed melody in a cold place.

Amazement broadens my eyes to watch the glistening water pass below, endless in any direction as only the sky had seemed to me before.  The white shapes of the clouds are so close overhead, as if the aureate tips of my wings might carve through their bodies and leave wispy trails.  While I still feel an unsteady discomfort rush though me when the wings beat to hold me aloft, I manage to forget their wrongness in the sheer sensory overload of flight so palpably real, and tangible.

Just as I’d noticed the hooves running behind me, I notice the sound now of wings, buffeting the dream wind.  Glancing over my shoulder, I find Aelin…

And she smiles at me.

[ OOC:  Hope this is okay! ]

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