Her weight against him was a strange pressure, but not unpleasant. He braced himself, supporting her. She was warm against him, luxurious, the meat of her frame like a cushion against his own bony hide. His wing wandered again - a mind of it's own - creeping across her back, holding loosely against her flesh.
He nodded his dished head, content with her approval and pulled away slowly, his wing holding tighter to her then, as if to guide her along. "I know the way. Stay close," he told her, curling his wing to his back only when she was close enough. They had a trek to make.
His legs churned up the dirt as they walked, matching the hoofprints of those that had made the trip before a thousand times. He had never walked the trail, but it mattered not; they would find their way eventually when he noticed the forests and hills around him matched those he saw from the sky days earlier.
The mare was pleasant enough, and he could grow to love her with time. Be it weak love, or fleeting, or something more passionate and unquenchable - he did not know. But she would be something to him now, for she was in his life. Everyone he met would lay some influence on his world, be it small, or much more significant.
Two hours later, Beqanna was dark. The stars twinkled above like glassy eyes watching them, beckoning them down a dim trail. The wilderness was quiet, the creatures of the day asleep and the creatures of the night lurking, waiting. The smell of water assaulted him first, the fresh smell delightful and calming. They were close. They emerged on the lake moments later, the surface a glimmer of silver in the starlight.
"Is it nice enough for you?" he asked her gently. He had survived on paths and coves before, and never once did he have a place to call home. He never owned anything in his life aside from his own actions, but he would adjust quickly to having a territory, a home of his very own. His eyes watched the dark red mare, her vibrant color a beautiful contrast to his dull form.
I want to locate a bit of you, cradle it,
say: this, there is no word for this.
MORBID ANGEL
But they will. They who name everything
will define our actions
as we auction our bodies off to sleep.
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