I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
He has spent his time wandering Beqanna and he does not understand it much better than when he had landed here in the first place. Their kingdoms. Their squabbles. The entangled relationships. It was all so petty and small. It reminded him of why him and his siblings had never dealt with mortals before. Why they had been content to live their lives set apart—content to remove themselves from the mess.
But even then, as serious as he has always been, he is not content to live in such solitude.
It grates on him, eventually. It makes the experience of living this hobbled life even more unsatisfying.
So he takes to the skies one evening. massive ones unfurling. The summer air is warm but cooler than it had been with the sun at its peak—and he is far more comfortable. He detested this change in seasons that happened on this land. Back home, it had always remained cool, bordering on cold. The air had a bite to it that had never reached beneath his coat. Bite that had invigorated and made him feel the truth of himself.
But this is close enough and he finds that he is nearly able to forget this prison when he flights in the dead of night, the stars dappling down on his back. It’s then, the wind wrapping around barrel, that he sees the flash of white. The otherworldly shine of it. He frowns, narrowing his gaze as he does a wide swoop back around to get a better look. When he recognizes her, there’s nearly a smile that touches his mouth.
He angles down, landing with a thunderous clap before folding his leathery wings atop his back.
“Islas,” her name comes easily. “I see the night sky has not yet reclaimed you."
MORROWIND
