Cinnamon had not known Zharko for long, but it always surprised him how cold the young silver black was. It was never coldness toward Cinnamon personally, and perhaps coldness was not the correct word, but he had never known young horses to act the way Zharko did. Cinn chalked it up to the boy’s missing brother; grief and stress changed people, especially children, and even though Zharko was a yearling now he had lost his brother much too young. He never asked the red stallion for anything, and the stubbornness and calculation with which he combed the Crossing Isle on his own (Cinn had tagged along a few times) was more adult than most adults the dappled stallion had known in his lifetime.
Cinnamon had trouble restraining himself from grooming the mud from Zharko’s dark fur as he joked about fighting off the season itself for the fresh grass. He had said it conversationally, and the red stallion almost missed the humor in Zharko’s dry tone, but he chuckled when he got it a split second later. "Is that why you’re so muddy?" he asked, then snagged a few bites of the bright green undergrowth for himself. The yearling stated that he could swim now, and Cinnamon nodded. He guessed the uncertainty of that statement. "The water’s warmed up quite a bit," he said reassuringly. "It’s been calm every time I’ve traveled."
Zharko started off in the direction of the shore, beyond which Tinuvel lay. Cinnamon didn’t know if he actually knew where Tinuvel was, or if he was just retracing Cinnamon’s steps, but he was mildly impressed either way. The yearling was clever, and Cinn doubted he actually needed the red stallion’s help, but rather stuck around for friendship. He didn’t mind either way. He liked the kid, and especially knowing the aloofness with which Zharko sometimes operated, he felt somewhat honored that the yearling had let him into his life. Cinn followed after him, his long legs keeping stride with the shorter stallion.
"It’s colder than the Crossing, but it wasn’t too bad when I was there," he said. "I bet it’s nice in the summer." The walk was a longer one to get to the point of the island where the swim was easiest, but they made good time, talking as they went. "Liland was nice. He said I could claim mares, whatever that means," he said with a chuckle. He knew what it meant, and he assumed Zharko knew as well, but Cinnamon was just not really one to forcefully claim mares. Or stallions. He was not very forceful by nature at all, but he had appreciated the permission Liland had given him even if he never took advantage of it.
The trees had begun to give way to stony outcroppings as they traveled around the Peak and its territory borders, beyond which the fabled Vulcans (Cinnamon had not yet met any of them, and for that he was secretly relieved) resided. The ocean crashed without too much vigor on their left, and the land rose intimidatingly on their right, until they finally reached the point where they could easily swim over to the winter island. Cinnamon, upon his arrival to the Crossing, had swam around the peak instead of walked, but he didn’t want Zharko to have to swim more than was necessary, and the walk was quite pretty once you got used to stepping on the rough stones.
He turned to the dark colt, black tail swishing lazily over crimson-dappled flanks. "Ready?"
she marks her fingerprints
in my skin
i breathe her perfume in
and it burns like heroin
now she's in me
and i can't let her go
