To Chelle, the southern tip of Atlantis is no true paradise, but a prison.
Restless as a caged lion, the tawny-and-white creature paces a never-ending circle, ashen fear burying the still-burning coals of her anger. For now, she has won a small victory in eluding her silver-haired captor— but escaping his words and actions prove far more difficult. Until today, Chelle has allowed herself to dream that eventually the Wolf-King will tire of her contempt. That she might outlast his seemingly-eternal patience, wearing it down like waves against a jagged stone. Instead, he has made a game of her defiance, toying with her like a predator confident in the capture of their prey. And he will claim me in any and every way that he can. The cinnamon girl shudders at the memory of Rougaru’s warm stale breath in her face, the memory of his blunt teeth closing on the strands of her tail.
Fear becomes terror, bubbling up like frigid water through a fissure in ice. Suddenly, the canopy seems to descend upon her, becoming the ceiling to her claustrophobic cage. And the shadow-striped trunks of trees form its bars, walling Chelle in everywhere she turns. Abandoning the neat ring she’d worn into the soft soil, she begins to weave drunkenly, desperately, seeking an out. A door left unattended, a window through which her slender body might slip— any means by which she might escape what is to come. Glimpsing a twisted dark shape in her path, the young mare steps jerkily to one side, one hoof coming down with enough force to cleave a twig in two.
The crack rings deafening in her ears, but it is the sounds that follow that set her heart fluttering against her ribs.
There is no mistaking the dull thud of hooves over soil, nor the harsher sounds of a large body forcing its way through the jungle’s dense growth. Freezing in place like a hunted gazelle, she attempts to still the harsh panting of her breaths and listen. Is it her imagination, or are the sounds growing more distant? Despite herself, Chelle feels the tickle of curiosity amidst the crushing grip of her fear. Whoever is near, she can only be certain that they are not Rougaru. And if her visitor is not the chocolate stallion, then who is it? The shadow-cat Faolain, making another attempt to snatch meat from the Wolf-King’s den? A member of the silver bay’s herd? Or is it Cain, come from the Desert to spirit her back home?
Feeling hope swell within her again, Chelle turns her freckled face towards the retreating hoof-beats and begins to follow. Taking care to move soundlessly, it feels like an eternity before she emerges from the jungle and onto Paradise’s eastern beach. And when the unfamiliar voice speaks (please, can you help me?), it is longer still before she can accept both the evidence of her senses and the soul-crushing truth that they bring. Twice she even closes her eyes, counting the pulses of her heart before she blinks them open again— but the stallion before her remains undeniably a stranger. I lost my way, and I’m not certain—
She feels as if she has lost her way too; like a piece of driftwood snatched from one shore and shoved roughly onto another. And something of this must show in her expression, because the nameless creature begins to drift closer, the confusion that colors his features yielding to concern. Chelle skitters backwards a step all the same, reminded too strongly of Judas in the heavier build of his body and the darkness of his coat where it isn’t dusted with white. Fortunately, her acquaintance stops his advance quickly, and even takes a couple backward strides of his own. It is enough to remove the edge of panic from her thoughts, and to coax her fear-flattened ears forward to catch the roan’s next words.
Does something ail you, mademoiselle? Even as the frantic jumping of her heart calms, the tobiano knows that she should go. That she stands to gain nothing and lose so much more in offering her trust to this unfamiliar male. But something in his voice— the helplessness, the hopelessness— coaxes her forward instead. And though the gesture amounts to no more than a single step, the smallest of acts can often hold the greatest significance.
“I— I don’t know either,” Chelle confesses, a mournful note beneath the gentle music of her voice. “I’ve lost my way as well, but finding it again is not as easy as searching. If there is a way that you could— but even Cain couldn’t stand against him.” She shakes her head from side to side a few times, as if waking from a pleasant dream and into a nightmare. No matter how well-intentioned this stranger might be, he cannot help her. No more than she could bear to see him harmed in the attempt.
“You— you should go. If Rougaru finds you here, then he—”
The vision of what the Wolf-King might do to this kind stranger squeezes at her throat, and Chelle’s ragged voice fades into silence.