"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
The storm season of Ischia had surprised the little girl. It was something she of course had been warned about, both her parents had told her not to go out alone. But at her nearly-teenage state of mind, her endless curiosity had consumed her, and she had longed to submerge herself in the warm sea, below the breaking waves.
It had been a mistake, she knew now.
She’d taken the safe shape of a jellyfish like she usually did, and the whipping winds had created currents that confused the young child. She’d instinctively swam against them, but it had tired her too much - so much so that she forgot to choose a form that was easier, and then her fragile jelly shape had floated across the merciless sea for miles and miles.
When she finally reached another land, she let herself be thrown on the shore, the much gentler waves lapping at her purple tentacles until she was rested enough to get back into her normal shape.
Now the 6-month old filly lay in the sand much like the washed-ashore jellyfish had: legs still half in the water, her head resting on a beach she immediately identifies as different from home, because it was so much colder than the sand of her home.
She coughs once or twice and opens a golden eye to look around. Where is she? In the distance, trees loom, of a kind she’s never seen before. A soft whine escapes her as she lifts her royal-purple head to look around, her metallic golden sunset mane still sticking to her wet body.
Dace draws up cautiously to the filly lying prone on the beach, voice, and head low as he speaks. She smells of brine, and there is salt crusting on her eyelashes. He extends his muzzle out to hover over her limp frame as it wracks itself with coughing. Nearly drowned? But she does not seem weak in that way, only cold, and tired, pressed beyond the capacity of a young body. In the chill of an early autumn morning, it will do her recovery no good to be soaked through, and he brushes his nose against her shoulder lightly, wicking away the thin skin of water clinging to the filly, surrounding himself with a faint shimmer of droplets that sparkles like fire then falls away into the sand beneath him. Only her legs remain wet where they are still in the water.
"Can you stand?" There are warmer places to stay than this brackish place where the stormy wind and waves crash together against the river's mouth, and it is a wonder that if the girl came by sea, she was not simply dashed against the black and jagged rocks there, yet she appears whole and unharmed. "Come, you'll have to walk, I can't carry you."
The stallion's blue-grey eyes catch her gold ones as she looks wildly around her and he sees the lack of recognition within them. Home is not here, but even if he were familiar with all the lands of Beqanna, the scent of where it might be has been washed away by the saltwater. Dace looks out at the choppy water thoughtfully, wondering if perhaps the answers are there, they almost certainly are, but he would have to piece the trail together, and from the look of the foal's exhausted body, he would have to travel further from land than would be wise, so he sighs and drops his muzzle close to her once again, exhaling softly from soft nostrils.
"Tell me about your home, Little Fish. Did you come from the bottom of the sea?"
The mauve filly hears a voice, and a small smile presents itself on her lips. Hello, little fish. How could he know the irony of his nickname? Still, she coughs a little from exhaustion, and she hardly responds when he cleans most of the moist from her coat. She’s still cold, but not as freezing as she was just a moment before, and she makes a small sound - nothing at all like the thank you she would have wanted to say, but it will have to do.
When he tells her he can’t carry her, disappointment floats into her golden gaze for just a second, but then she struggles through the sand and pushes a foreleg under her body. Like a foal standing for the first time, she struggles to get up, and half-wobbles half-crawls through the sands only to drop her exhausted body again. Her wings flutter like an insect’s or a butterfly’s, but she doesn’t have the strength to change them into any one lighter substance than her natural feathers for the moment, and she lets them droop by her sides once more. Looking up to the red-faced male, Elayne gives a nod and smiles, then shakes her head. When she opens her mouth, she croaks, her body too dehydrated to allow her throat any understandable sounds, let alone coherent words. She sighs, letting her head hang to hide her tears. How stupid had she been? Would she ever see her mom and dad again now?
The girl struggles beside him, and it's no surprise, she looks as if she has fought the currents all night, and even an hour would be exhausting in the storms that passed them. He leans forward to bolster her attempt to stand against the strength of his leg and shoulder but her weary legs give out with a sob and a heavy flutter of feathers and she sinks back into the sand.
Dace presses his lips together, lifting his head to scan the shore around them, the secretive sea, and the river's mouth that roils and tumbles into it nearby. Bright ears turn back with a thoughtful swish of his bright tail. Weak, dehydrated, her voice rough as a shiner's growl, he supposed she won't get far, certainly not as far from the windswept shore as he meant to take her. Thoughts of the protected copses at the edge of the woods drop away from his mind.
"Yes, okay, it's alright." His muzzle brushes her poll with warm breath and then he pulls carefully away, picking up an easy trot through the shifting sand and pebbles. With flared nostrils he seeks out freshwater, dipping his lips into each pool and puddle he passes until he finds a tributary of sweetwater untouched by the storm surge from the sea. An unspoken word draws the water to him, silver and reflective like a swirling mirror that twines and spreads around him. Well-armored, he returns to the speechless girl, water pulsing around him, and when he drops his head it pours down his neck like a spout, pooling in a pocket of sand near her.
"Drink," he says, while he positions himself between her and the rushing wind, his voice low and calm, as though they have all the time in the world. He cannot know her private worries, but it is not hard to guess that she frets over something lost, her family, her home, the feeling of belonging that comes with knowing your world so intimately. A little lost girl in a world full of strangeness. He smiles softly.
"I'm new here, too, but we'll get you home again. The world feels so big now because you're lost, but it's often smaller than it seems."
So little does he know, so little does she. But her instincts have led her here, have helped her survive, and his seem to be doing alright as well. Her parched body screams for nourishment and clean, fresh water, and he recognizes it and brings it - that's all she cares about right now. Her voice may be too damaged to speak, but he seems to understand her regardless, and so she gives a small smile when he comes back - relieved, because for just a few heartbeats she'd thought he might leave.
The command is not needed, but she heeds it slowly anyway. The wind may be blocked out a little, but her warm-wet body is soon cold regardless, and she has a hard enough time moving as is. His words however are encouraging, and when she's had a little water - her stomach could probably not handle more, anyway - she tries to stand again. She has to get away from the beach, get shelter, and get her long-needed rest... but she still jumbles over her own limbs, desperately reaching for the stallion's mane in the process to keep from falling over again.
