She is there in front of him all at once.
A mousy-brown smudge that rises above the sand, stands like she is still in motion (or wants to be). He thinks her a mirage at first, a fleeting, fever-dream of his dragon’s creation. He’s had so many lately -
The heat comes first, a heaviness that spreads from his belly to his chest and up into his throat. It feels like his innards are crisping in hellfire, like he will melt from the inside-out. But he never does. The beast always pulls him back from the brink when it takes over (or maybe he never toes the line between life and death, even, it only seems he does). When he wakes in control, Sabrael has retained only glimpses of his frantic flights and blood baths. It is better, he tells himself later, but wonders. What have I done?
Heat rises in him again at the sight of Wallace, but before despair drowns him, he realizes it is an altogether different kind of fire. He burns at a memory he has grasped tightly in order to remember. Purple. Red. Forest. Lace. Lace. It curls around the edges of her now, despite her continuous shifting, hugging her hips like a shawl she would rather not wear. Every detail of that day comes rushing back then, besides a few missing pieces from the Irishman’s fog. Most of the details afterwards he should remember too, but doesn’t. He should recall following the guardian party home, splashing onto the shores and finding her a place. He should remember standing outside of her shelter while she slept, well or unwell, and soothing her in the latter case.
But those memories would be false. None of it happened.
There will be a child, he thinks, but she is alone. Sabrael takes her in, fully, measuring the angle of her shoulders, the set in her jaw (all hard and square) before realizing he is her mirror. He softens his stance, relaxes his wings so that they pull jagged lines in the sand as he moves forward. She launches her first grenade and it stops him cold. You’ve been gone. There is no pity in her eyes though she sees the changes in him. They have both changed in ways incomprehensible and unfair, but she spares him nothing while he means to give her everything. Every apology, every “I’m sorry” and more that he could not do before. She turns and leaves him with a parting welcome home that makes him feel anything but.
Before fire scorched him from the inside out, he may have walked away and let both of them cool down. But he is remade (burned and blood-soaked and wild) and he rises to her challenge. The roan pumps his leather wings and lifts into the salty air with ease. He glides just ahead of Wallace and lands easily in front of her, close enough to exhale smoke in the space between them (remnants of the dragon’s quiet rage). “There is nothing I would enjoy more than ripping that monster apart limb by limb for what he did to you.” Gold-flecked eyes close forcefully because he can feel himself slipping away, giving into the heat and his murderous thoughts. He pauses for a long time, too long to be comfortable, before daring to look at her again.
When he opens his eyes, anguish meets her stone glint. There is no way to tell her, though. No easy way, he amends. He is a monster just like the one who tried to ruin her. Even worse, he’s not fully in control of himself, not easily reined in. “I’m sorry,” the words are simple, the meaning so much more. I’m sorry for what happened. I’m sorry for not being there for you. I’m sorry for what I might do.
Sabrael