be humble, for you are made of earth
She is alive.
Has come alive, in a way that is different from before.
The mishmash of both species has become but one, a shape that she has seen and nursed from even but never known as her own. It has her now, graceful and lean and a leaping power coils in her hindquarters. She is alive, and the air in her nostrils is sharp and sweet as is his scent. However, her delight is cut short as he affirms what she has already surmised - this will not last, he tells her in a voice commanding and deep.
I know, her eyes tell him - her mouth still mute.
(She has never fully grasped the concept of language to begin with.)
He says it will last long enough and she believes him, because he is a magnificent stag and she is a doe almost besotted by the majesty of him. How could she not believe him when he has given her this much, this small taste at the self that had lain trapped inside the horse’s skin? Fur realizes that he has given her a gift, that is what the blood on his shoulder means and she does not know how to repay him. She has nothing to give but herself and whatever he asks of her, commands of her because she cannot disobey him now.
Her question goes unanswered and she does not press him as he turns to the forest, motions her to it. She can feel her pulse quicken, needing not his command to come because she springs after him on eager new legs that express joy and grace in bounding effortless leaps. What finds her is not language, but laughter - pure, raw laughter that comes unbidden from her throat as she joins him in this venture, or is it a quest?
Fur is quite curious to follow him and discover; he seems so certain, as a stag should, and she can do little more than leap and follow and revel in the way that her shape is light and strong, and she laughs again.