The sea spits him out rather ungraciously. He finds his feet after a few stumbles, turning to look back at the receding waves with a firm scowl. He’s not used to the swimming – maybe he never will be – but he has at least kept himself afloat, at least made it. Though where, exactly, he has made it remains a question.
The alien land stretches before him, rising into hills and dipping into valleys, none of which he has seen before. The Mountain stabs up into the clouds, he can see it even from his far distance from it (a visible reminder to all of their sins, he reckons). Sabrael shudders at the sight of it, but not from fear. A hot anger not even the sea could quench rises within him when he thinks of all that has been taken from him.
He is a child of the Reckoning; he does not relish the fact that it has ruled his life so far.
The fall air chills his still-drying coat as he moves further away from the shoreline. The young stallion is suddenly thrust back into the Dale. The kaleidoscope of colors on the trees and the carpet of leaves under his feet takes him back to his childhood. It’s so unlike Ischia, so like the mountain kingdom that he wonders why his mother even followed the faerie’s directions into the parting mist.
Eventually, the trees are replaced by tall grasses that sway in the early breeze. His amber-gold eyes sweep across the more familiar planes of the meadow. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for here but he is almost certain he will find it. The space between the bodies (between everything, truly) is already a comfort. His island is clustered and stuffy; here it is open and inviting, as if he could fill any space he wanted. The speckled bay grins as he moves into the crowd, his eyes searching.
Sabrael