He stands and watches as the recognition dawns across Gael’s face. There is something in his eyes, half-hidden and otherwise indiscernible, and Nike cannot help but wonder. There are many things about himself that he doesn’t understand. It’s clear, now, that he got his height from his father, but the silver glean to his hair remains a mystery.
Nike’s sister used to call him a dreamer, and told him stories of how he was born under an auspicious sign and blessed by the distant, wandering moon.
Was he a dreamer still?
“I’m glad to see you too,” the young stallion replies easily, shifting his weight to settle, eyes drifting, though his attention remains mostly upon the shrouded figure ahead of him. His ears twitch at the next words that break the stillness that descends on them, and tempted as he is to answer straight away, Nike dips his head ever so slightly, and muses over the idea.
In truth, he cannot clearly remember his mother’s face, though he knows that his sister is an almost-perfect replica, fine-boned and divinely shaped. Humming under his breath a moment, the young stallion finally looks once more to his father.
“And I have grown to look like you,” he adds in a level tone, dark eyes soft and the ghost of a crooked smile flitting across his mouth. He wonders if he should speak of Ruth and her promised return, but decides against it for now. Instead, Nike twitches his tail idly, and breathes a soft sigh. “It’ll get cold here in winter,” he murmurs. “We should find somewhere more sheltered, where the grazing won’t be so sparse.”
And what goes unspoken: I want to stay with you awhile, if you’ll have me.
It was better, not to be alone. It would just be for a short time.
Until she came back to the islands.
Back to the mountain.
Back to him.
Ruth.
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