The winter seas are not as kind as the summer.

Sabrael makes it to the mainland but only barely.  His stomach roils like the waves long after the shore is behind him.  The gentlest kiss of wind on his hide chills him and sets his teeth to chatter.  He realizes, too late, why Ischia has not received any visitors since the days shortened and the moon shouldered extra hours.  He realizes, too, why few had braved a temporary escape from their island, why life had seemingly stalled inside of its sandy borders.  Compared to their balmy, changeless territory, the common lands are almost unrecognizable for their frozen otherness. 

He shakes and shivers from beach to field.  When the beginnings of a forest comes into view (stunted saplings in the forefront, gangly evergreens and naked oaks rising behind them), he dives into it for cover. 

It only takes a few steps into the woods for Sabrael to warm marginally.  Or perhaps it is the lack of wind that takes the bite out of the air.  Either way, the young stallion is grateful for the stillness.  He is less grateful for the unreasonable darkness that blots out the sky.  It shouldn’t be this dark, this time of year.  Without the leaves knitting the canopy closed, he should be able to walk under patchwork light.  He should be able to catch a glimpse of a passing grey cloud or a rising peregrine through the boughs. He cannot, though.  It is quiet and dark and still.

His stomach twists again, but he ignores the warning and presses on.

There is a wary excitement sweetening the acid in his guts at the possibility of danger.  It has always been there, always burned him from the inside out.  He has kept it tamed as best as he can, as much as decorum has dictated by his parent’s positions.  But there will come a day (soon, it purrs inside of him) that he will not be able to hold onto the chain any longer.  There will come a time that he will erupt and be burned and burn.

The other appears out of nowhere (and shouldn’t he have heard the rustle of dead leaves?  But he hadn’t – he hadn’t heard a damn thing).  Sabrael spins, already feeling behind, caught off guard.  Ohhh I know you.  He looks over the other one time and then two because the feeling is not mutual.  He’s never seen a man quite like this one, in fact.  Purple patches cover him, the color of cresting ocean waves just before daybreak.  Loud in color, loud in the grating closeness of his voice, his body.  A smile lives a quick life and a quicker death on Sabrael’s face as the man talks.  He is just a beat behind him, understanding dawning just too late before the tobiano is onto the next sentence. 

The beast begins to growl in frustration.

And while he has no idea what the man is really going on about (his toy? She?), something about the flippant way he says “break in”, the near-glee when he says “tricks”, makes his blood boil.  But his mind is slower to catch on than his instinct.  Kerberos licks his lips and it is enough to elicit an immediate response.  “I am certain that I am not interested.”  But before he can move away, the other kisses his shoulder.  Sabrael shudders, but if it is from disgust or the magic streaming through the conduit into him, he is not sure.  Either way, he is held in place long enough.

The dragon sheds him like a second skin the moment Kerberos breaks contact.

Or tries to, anyway.  It isn't completely successful.  Glossy, rust-colored wings claw out of his sides.  Twin horns poke their way over his brow, their deadly tips arching over his poll.  The surge of power is electric.  For a moment, he forgets Kerberos.  The dragon relishes its freedom, even if it isn’t fully untethered yet.  But finally, finally, a gentle breeze stirs scents deeper in the forest and brings them to the pair.  Sabrael smells Wallace.  She.  The toy.  The urge to tear the man to pieces wars with his need to find her (because a part of him finally understands).  In the end, he leaves the man with a flash of his predator teeth and a promise.

“I will not forget what you’ve done.”        

Sabrael