Drogon

Her answer to his question was made of many parts, and he collected the pieces carefully as they ran, not yet daring to try and piece the puzzle together until they had reached her chosen destination. Drogon tried to keep his aloof demeanor, but it was hard to keep it from being contaminated by her joy and he found his attention fixating on her expression far more often than it did on the territory that she led him to. He was fascinated by her happiness, not only that it existed in light of the losses she claimed, but that it seemed to exist alongside sadness without being dimmed. Drogon wasn't sure he had ever seen anyone hold both extremes within their grasp without shorting out, and he found it hard to look away.

Drogon was so busy watching her face he nearly crashed into her as she drew to a sudden halt. His shoulder brushed against her body again, but he shifted away to allow her space. The dark stallion's gaze tore reluctantly away from her to scan the greenery around them, still half expecting a trap. Atlantis might exist in a seemingly peaceful bubble, but Drogon knew better than to trust that it would last. His father's reputation was hard earned, and had come at a cost that not everyone approved of.

They stood in silence for a moment as their breathing evened, and the sound of her voice was strangely reassuring. She could be attempting to lure him into a false sense of security, but he doubted it. Her body language did not give him the impression that she wished to harm him, only to show him... something; and he wasn't entirely convinced even she knew what it was.

She spoke again - still of rivers - and he listened, although he was no longer certain that the words themselves were important. Each new adjective she ascribed to the waterways seemed to also apply to something else, and while he could not know for sure without pressing her for more, he was growing confident that the rivers were not true rivers. At least, not in the way he'd ever experienced rivers. Rather, he was beginning to believe that she spoke of other souls, although whether it was one or many, from the past or the future, was yet unclear.

When de rains come, she said, drawing his attention back to the pale twist of her lips, dey are mighty and terrifying t'ings to behold. He made a soft sound of assent, but did not say anything further. He had been warned of flash floods as a boy, but had never had the misfortune of witnessing one himself. In truth, the worst weather event he'd had to witness was when heavy storms rocked the Shore-side of Atlantis and pushed the beaches so far up that ocean water had risen nearly a mile inland. Beyond that, the heavy canopy of Paradise had shielded him from the worst of summer storms, and the normal weather in the Bay was miserable no matter the season so that hardly counted.

He paused when she did again, and while she hesitated to give him time to look at the scenery, he didn't think it mattered as much. Not when he had the whole of her face to watch for reactions, for the subtle downturn of a lip that turned her smile from confident to uncertain, or the way her good eye grew misty with some thought or memory he couldn't touch.

The willing press of her skin against his is a sharp reminder that he is not entirely immune to the ebb and flow of the season, and he clenches down sharply on his own tongue, counting on the pain to remind him of who he is, and what he has come for. By the time she had begun to weave haphazard trails through the thick greenery, he had retaken his customary place at her side with another fleeting brush of his dark muzzle against her alabaster hip.

... you cannot know dey are dere until you find yourself on de sloping bank, she murmured, and he frowned in his own silence, wishing - not for the first time - that he was a mind reader. Nothing about her posture seemed to imply a threat, but her words... they remained as captivating as they had in the beginning, but the meaning underlying the syllables was far more slippery to grasp.

Her gaze found him again, like fingers trailing through a garden only to select a single bloom to pluck, and he swore he could see her taking the measure of him. He wondered what she saw in him. Compared to most on the isles, her included, he was nondescript. Clad in a coat nearly monochrome brown-black with nothing save for a small smudge of a star to break the monotony. Even his eyes were dark, as unlike the verdant green of Rougaru and the shifting intelligence ins his mother's bright amber gaze as was possible. Young, but no longer a child. Adult, but not mature.

Only his deeds spoke for him, and he had done very little for himself so far.

As quickly as it came, the moment passed and he continued following her, to the stream and then beyond, until her pale hooves came to a stop in the fallen leaves. Distracted by Charybdis though he was, a part of Drogon would always expect a trap, no matter the locale, and so he - like her - oriented toward the flash of color in the greenery without conscious thought. He wasn't sure what he had seen - only that the blend of black and white might have been gray, and most certainly did not want to be seen.

Drogon was yet unsure whether the rivers the enigmatic little mare spoke of where threats or friends, nor whether they were from the past, present or future. He understood little of what had transpired so far, but he remained tense and on edge as he followed the little splashed mare further inland. As wise as it might have been for him to turn tail and flee to the familiar comforts of Paradise at even this subtle hint of threat, he felt as though he was already far too deep into this hole to climb out, and was resolutely determined to see it through to the end.

He had a purpose in coming here, even if that purpose had grown translucent as his attention was pulled elsewhere.

Together they stopped before the waterfall, and while the view was spectacular, his gaze remained on her face, studying the way the worry lines eased in the presence of the rushing water, and the way her sides expanded with the first deep breath he could remember seeing her take. After a moment of contemplation, she turned to him and again he felt as though she were examining him, searching for the faults that he held close to his chest.

I have only ever walked dese trails alone, never wit' anyone. Her quiet admission carried a deeper weight, and he found himself hesitating at the precipice, aware that he was about to make a choice. Silence stretched for a long moment as they stared at each other, nearly oblivious to the cacophony of the waterfall beside them. Drogon could not know for sure if this moment would truly change the future, but it felt as if it could. As if the words he chose now might forever alter the course of his own river in ways that he could not yet forese, and thereby protect himself from.

"That could change," he said quietly after a long beat of silence, his gaze still intensely locked on her own. He took a small step forward and extended his muzzle so that the next thing he murmured could still be heard above the roar of the water. "If you wanted it to."

Can you feel it?