They refuse him. Of course they do. But even as Ea steps into the low water and beckons him away, the dragon cannot douse the fire still burning in his belly.
It had weakened to a flame at his mother’s touch (a touch he’d known his entire life, one that said “stop and think about what you are doing,” his impulse control). Then the votes had been cast. And when Ashley and his family had betrayed them openly, their voices cutting against even the ocean waves and counting against Ea, his temper had reignited. Throwing his head back towards the treeline, he loosed a jet of fire at the nearest trees. The salt-dried wood singed quickly, inky smoke smudging out the blue from the skies. Sabrael spared the handiwork of his release only a moment of attention before he focused his reptilian gaze on the red mage.
“Stay,” he said, his eyes sparking dangerously. “You deserve it.”
“You are not welcome with us”, goes unsaid – doesn’t need to be said. But it still hurts that he thinks it, anyway. Ashley had been almost like a father figure during his tumultuous young adulthood. He had defended their fledgling home and assisted in their sparse politics. He had explored the ocean around the island, had brought in his own family to fill their quiet shores with company. He had helped save Wallace, most importantly, stepped in when he wasn’t required to. The pain of losing Ischia is compounded by the loss of Ashley.
Sabrael doesn’t acknowledge Kirin as he launches himself into the hot air, doesn’t look back at the island of Ischia. There is only forward now. Forward he’s gone from the Dale. Forward he’s gone from the Mountain. Forward he’ll go from this home, too, until there’s another place to sink his roots into the easy earth. The dragon pulls the last of the tropical wind under his wings and rides the thermal up and up and up. He climbs until the air is chilled, until it is cold. When condensation forms barely-there icicles on his snout, he lets go of his hold on the wind and plummets to the ground below.
~
He sees them. Ea comforts his youngest sibling under the safety of a swaying, summer tree. The shushing of the leaves against each other is comfort enough for the bay roan stallion. It takes him back to the Dale, where towering sentinel trees watched over his earliest ventures. But the memories are too much like coal, now, hard things eager to be burnt. He has lost the edge he’d teetered on before (exhausting, endless flights will do that) and walks to his family loose-limbed and quiet. “I’m sorry,” he says when he is close. They are the only three to reconvene so far; he wouldn’t apologize if there were more (for his mother’s sake or for his own, he’s not sure). “It isn’t over.” And it isn’t, not by a long shot. But –
“Mother, I have to go.” His gold-ringed eyes seem to glow in the gentle meadow light. They are softer than he feels, softer than he is; he won’t reflect himself to them, not now. “Wallace and I have to travel to Pangea. Please, stay until we return.”
Sabrael