SABAH
"Why would you not see me again?" Zion asked, and the innocence, the unexpected simplicity of that question stumped Sabah. She blinked at him, and the action released one, then two tears from the shining water line of her mismatched eyes.
"Well, I—" she began, but her words trailed into nothing. She leaned forward at his proffered muzzle, grateful for the distraction, and the velvet warmth of him soothed her. He smelled of winter things: of a cold land across the sea. She exhaled gently against him, fluttering her eyes closed for a moment, but before she could pull away he was moving again, pressing up alongside her, the soft weight of his head on her back. Her lips parted in surprise, but she did not recoil from the sudden intimacy. The closeness, the warmth and scent of him took her back to the day they'd met a season ago, filling her with bittersweet solace, and she felt her muscles loosening with relief. She felt as comfortable with him in that moment as if they'd known each other for years. As if she'd come home.
Perhaps he was the closest thing she had to it.
"I barely feel it," she murmured in response to his question, even as she was wracked by a full-body shiver. She pressed against Zion gratefully, the fluff of his winter coat mixing with hers, and gazed out at their dull brown surroundings, seeing none of it. She blinked another tear away, thinking of all the things she wanted—needed to tell him.
"A lot's happened since we last saw each other, Zion," she finally said, her voice small. "I… wish you had taken me away that day."