A hush has fallen over the beach, muting even the soft music of waves lapping at the shore. And in that silence, Chelle hopes— and dreads— that her companion will listen. That he will flee, and prevent the terrible vision in her thoughts from coming to pass. Blood staining the silvery-blue coat, blood dripping onto sand. And the screams that she will never forget, screams of anger and pain both. The harsh aria that only violence can sing. Sucking in a breath, the tawny girl shivers, and clings with desperate strength to the life-preserver of the stranger’s voice. I would still like to try to help you, if you will allow it. And, please, do not let go of hope. The words are as soft and hesitant as her own, but somehow they give her strength. Somehow, it helps knowing that she is not alone in her fear— helps her to rise above it, even if the courage that she feels is fleeting.

He can help her, he can. He already has.

It isn’t so easy to ask for the act that might spare her, though, especially given that she hasn’t— that she never— It was never meant to be like this, the freedom of choice she’d found in her sacrifices stolen from her in a single stroke. But if she leaves this to fate, then Chelle fears that she will have no part in the decision at all. That she won’t even be able to choose who, if not when. As much as she might balk at the future laid out before her (like the bare branches of driftwood on the beach— a forlorn thing compared to what might have been), the freckled girl knows she cannot hide from it. So instead, she will face it. Moving closer to the roan male again in their mutual silence. Another step, this one even more significant than the last.

I do not care if he finds me...I will not leave you. The slender mare cannot understand every syllable that his lips form, but this vow she does. This promise stays with her like the hollow kindness of his other words had not, hanging like a warm mist between them. And disregarding the nervous flutter that fills her belly, she edges closer again, until she is able to skim her lips along the dark skin of his cheek. The flesh of it is unmarked by the scars that dot Cain’s coat. The twisted lines she’d burned to touch, flush with a mixture of curiosity and gratitude. Chelle can feel the same warmth bubbling in her throat now, and it reminds her that— like the Desert’s king— she must leave the choice ultimately in this stranger’s power.

That he must agree to her freely, or she is no better than Rougaru.

“You don’t have to stay,” she murmurs, flinching at how her speech sounds after the soft music of his. Her voice lacks the same lilting quality, the inflection that softens the harshest syllables of spoken language. But her touch— the whiskered lips that trace a gentle path down to the curve of his muzzle— strives to do that for her. “It’s enough that I could hear a kind voice. Especially when there’s nothing I have to offer you in return.” Glancing down the beach— searching instinctively for the Wolf-King— Chelle is struck by the memory of their last meeting. Call me whatever you will. It makes no difference to me.

And she does laugh then...a sound not as sweet as it might have been only seasons ago, but still warm. “Actually, there is. It’s a small enough gift, but one even Rougaru could not force from me.” Her lips curl instinctively as they form the chocolate stallion's name, but her gaze remains soft.

“My name...it is Chelle.”