KENDRY
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Would that she could be just a dream.
Her keening grief shards his heart and echoes through the cold cavern of his chest. In isolation it has been easy to ignore that widening chasm and subsequent numbness, easy to lose track of which day is today and forget what it feels like to be alert, awake, alive. It has been easy, by himself, to ignore the wind's touch no matter how strong or how coldly it gusts, to not-see the change between daylight and dusk and forget, for a time, to hear or see or smell his surroundings beyond the most basic instincts. This wailing grief, though, cannot and will not be ignored, nor should it be.
Kendry meets the mare's eyes when they crack open and lock upon his, anchoring them both on this cold, hard, unforgiving beach where the wind throws icy spray in their faces to remind them they do, indeed, still exist. His eyes search hers as she tries to speak, her exhaustion and confusion evident from the snatches of sentences she can barely articulate, and when she bows her head as a fresh wave of grief threatens to overwhelm her it is all Kendry can do to remain standing and not crumple beside her and cave to his own agony as she gives voice to all he has denied himself since winter deadened the land.
There is some catharsis in hearing another's pain echo so closely his own.
There is a note to her crying, though, that strikes deeper than his grief, something that rings worse than his broken heart abandoned some miles away, and this is what keeps him on his feet as the wind whips flurries of snow about like tangled lace. He whickers encouragement as she flails for her footing, and when she falls back into the packed sand his gaze meets hers steadily. "Again," he coaxes, though she is already in motion, moving a little more deliberately this time, and though she is smaller than he Kendry still braces himself more firmly to bear her weight as she successfully stands.
There is a pause as her head droops, then comes up sharply as she turns to bury her face against his neck. Kendry worries she has used all, or almost all, of her strength just to haul herself upright, but they cannot remain on this beach. "This way," he says, and makes as if to step forward. Once he feels her move to follow, the pale stallion continues to stride slowly but deliberately up the gently sloped beach and toward the smattering of trees clustered in little groves at this edge of the Lagoon, paying attention to how she handles the pace and footing and slowing or taking more of her weight as needed. His eyes pass over her dark, scraped legs many times as they step off the sand and crunch over the snow piled unevenly across the hard earth. He imagines she is bruised as well. Almost, he envies the ache morning is sure to bring if lying stiff and collapsed on the beach has not invited it to set in already. Almost.
Kendry leads her to a nondescript stand of trees. There he turns them so that his bulk is between her and the ocean, where he can act as both a windbreak and visual barrier to the callous sea which has spit her out, as well as keep an eye inland. Thus settled, Kendry glances at the mare. Her eyes are stark against the pale cream of her face and, suddenly self-conscious at bearing witness to so much of a stranger's vulnerability —and in no small part afraid she might see his own— the perlino drops his head a bit to inspect her chafed legs more closely. "I'm going to clean your wounds," he says, breathing against her left knee before administering a tentative lick and glancing up to see how painful this process might be for her. With a gruff, "Sorry," Kendry focuses on carefully licking clean the first dark, battered leg of this nameless mare who was washed in by a careless tide as if she were just another piece of flotsam rejected by the sea.
He pays attention as he works, pausing as often as is needed to grant her some reprieve from this necessary discomfort and added pain, but diligent in his task so that they might both be done with it more quickly. Kendry wonders what happened to her— where she came from, what brought her here; but he also knows there are griefs worse than heartbreak and he will not drive that trauma any deeper into her by being so callous as to ask of it. Instead, when next he pauses, he draws back a little to give himself a break as well and glances up at her again. "Been awhile since I've seen anyone as beat up as you. Bet you showed those rocks who's boss," he says, trying for some levity, but his words sound hollow and out-of-place, and his short-lived smile never quite reaches his eyes. "I'm Kendry, by the way," he says as he looks back to his task. "You're on the Lost Islands. This's the Lagoon, but there's lots more these isles have to offer. Mountains, waterfalls, jungles— there's a little bit of everything, here."
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OF THE LAGOON |
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