Iscariot is interesting - any new soul is, for Çiçek - but Rivaini is the object of most of her attention. She keeps a keen eye on the mare as they move up the beach, jokingly dropping her head and snaking towards her when she balks, only to melt into her typical joyous posture when her Guardian corrects herself. She would never force her, not truly - if Rivaini had truly refused, she would have backed off, but the dunalino’s charms, she’s found, are hard for others to resist. The light of her affection shines warm upon those who are lucky enough to experience it; thankfully, she carries love with her in spades, and can share it freely amongst the horses in her life. Though it’s possible, yes, that some could grow accustomed to her presence - her light - and grow cold in its absence, she hasn’t yet had to deal with that issue, and she doesn’t intend to. Çiçek might be leaving the Ridge come the changing of the seasons, but her bond to Solomon, for now, is only for the warmer months. If she wants, come autumn, she can leave for warmer shores - and where else would she run to but the warm embrace of the Island and the mares that have treated her with such kindness?

However…

Her mind drifts to the child. Her child; no, their child. Solomon hadn’t visited her until the end of autumn. The babe wouldn’t be born until late spring, perhaps even early summer, giving it only a season to be with its father. Çiçek knows she can’t (And won’t) tear their foal from him, not for her own selfishness; A life of love and support, one with both parents, had been instrumental to her growing up, and she wants that for her kin more than air. One does not grow up in the span of one season, though, and if she and Solomon are to raise their child together, the Cove will have to be her permanent home for a year, perhaps longer.

Can she handle that? Or will the winds call to her, whispering of places old and new, seen and unseen? What, in the end, is more important: her happiness or the child’s?

Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Çiçek knows her answer.

Rivaini’s voice breaks her out of her thoughts, ringing curiously innocent in her ears. Her lips quirk up in a rakish sort of smile, one that briefly touches her eyes, and she lowers her head to brush her muzzle against the sand. The green, yellow-splotched feathers strewn about in the shade stir gently with the soft huff of her breath. Normally, she’d have some sort of quip ready, but as she lifts back up to look Rivaini in her striking sapphire eyes, all she has left is the earnest, hopeful truth.

“Well, he’ll be coming in Spring...” Her voice falters, hesitating. “...to meet the baby.”

Everything around them - the sound of the waves, the palm leaves shifting overhead, even poor Iscariot - falls away.