The sound of hoofbeats pulls Val from his absent wandering. Everything here in this alien land smelled… well, alien, so the mare’s scent had hardly registered to him by the time she catches up and keeps pace.
When he notices her, he doesn’t stop, but his inkwell eye slides over her face and he cocks his dark head slightly to peer at her. He is thinking of how his body had stuttered on the beach when he stopped swimming, so he allows his legs to continue the comfortable and rhythmic action of walking, but his attention wholly shifts to the strange mare beside him. Her coat is golden — a color he’s never seen before. It catches his eye.
Are you well? she asks.
He gives a hoarse chuckle. Is it that obvious? he rasps. His voice is hardly more than a whisper, coarse and gravelly and deep. He knows he must look a mess, and perhaps he sticks out like a sore thumb around here, an outsider identifiable at a glance. It’s not ideal, but his voice holds humor despite the circumstances. I made it here alive, at least. Thanks for asking.
He dips his head once more to scoop up a mouthful of snow, but his black eyes do not leave the golden mare. His gaze is greedy, but not purposeful; he simply enjoys the color of her, and is content to soak up the sight of it for as long as he is allowed. He does not yet make a move to touch her, or even draw close.
As he swallows the frigid snowmelt in his mouth, he is racked by a powerful shudder that threatens to unbalance him, and he finally comes to a halt. His body has more or less locked up, and refuses to continue moving.
Well, he says, his body shivering so hard that he finds it hard to speak through his clenched teeth, perhaps I spoke too soon. I think I ought to have been here at least until sunrise for it to count as ‘making it’. He lifts his face to the sky, watching one edge of it begin to turn blue. If I can hold out another hour, I’ll call it a win. It’s starting to lighten. His face remains tilted up, but his abyssal eyes flick back toward the mare. She offers her name to him: Zira. He rolls it around in his mouth for a few contemplative moments. Zira, he repeats thoughtfully. He likes it.
You can call me Val, he says. If I had any friends, it’s what they would have called me.