Meadow

You’re hurt! Sympathy softened her sweet voice. When had that tone ever been directed at him before? Confusion briefly touched Peyote’s blue eyes as they peered beneath the white half-skull that adorned his face. She spoke more, telling him of her own past of pain, and that the cold water he had moved into to be close to her would be good for him. Peyote blew a small breath out of his nose, a sigh of acceptance. She was right, the cold waters would feel wonderful on his sore muscles. Maybe it had been a mixture of the adrenaline and the frigid waters of the Bay that’d helped him not pay much mind to his aches when he’d thrown himself back into the ocean to swim his way here.

The silver girl - Lenore, he remembered she said - shook out her hair and displaced a few locks. Standing closer to her now, Peyote found himself admiring the marred skin as the healthy part of her pelt caught the moon and seemed to glow. His gaze traced the shapes horses had left with their mouths on her - he had a few scars along his body himself, some freshly born, but most earned when he was young and still growing. The only way to gain attention was to antagonize his father; the only way to become strong was to be antagonized in turn. Nothing else in this world could shock you if, when you were a child just learning what trust was, the hand that was meant to protect you delivered pain instead.

She whispered to him and Peyote’s black-lined ear flicked to catch her words, careful not to miss even the exhale of her breath. Lenore told him of waterfalls and he looked along the winding river they stood, knowing from growing up on Crossing Isle the Falls themselves were not terribly far. They were too large and powerful, though, but maybe the offshoots that trickled in smaller streams from the sides would be capable to stand beneath and let run across his injured hip. His eyes latched onto her again. Would she come with him? Peyote was not yet ready to leave her company, but he was in no shape to pin his ears and shove her in the direction he wanted to walk.

It did not occur to him, of course, that she could simply be invited to keep his company.

The expression that touched her face next was another one Peyote found strange. She looked as though he should be upset with her about something and, when she spoke, told him of her father being a demon and her rumored to be one as well. Peyote had been called a demon a time or two; he had been taught that most of the islands would catch the musky, heady scent of the Lagoon mire and think ill of him no matter what he might do to change their mind. It was his job, or so he understood it, to keep that tradition alive. When they looked at him as a beast, he must act like a beast.

“No,” he said simply and shook his head at her. She was no demon. His eyes narrowed on her almost thoughtfully before he uttered his next word, “soft.”

In Peyote’s life to be called soft was an insult, but when he said the word, it did not hold any negative connotation. She did not feel less than because he thought her to be a kind soul; though he did understand that meant if he was more physically able, he could keep her. Peyote regrettably set the thought aside. Another day he could seek her out and push her back to the mud flats of the Lagoon he kept occupied to himself. Today he would have to set aside those urges, no matter how perfect of a prize he was beginning to think she was.

Peyote tilted his head and peered at her, doing something he had never done before and inviting company through words. Well, a word; that was really most of what you could get from him anyways. His eyes met hers - their gazes were so different in hue - and he blinked. “Waterfall?”