He was one of the last to answer the call.
Leander had hesitated at first. It wasn’t just that he was sick. It wasn’t just the wracking cough, the searing fever, the weakness that had quickly sewn itself into the marrow of his bones. It was more than that. The failure of his last venture to the Mountain yet remained at the forefront of many thoughts, and in his current state he had to wonder if he would truly be of any help. He had been of so little help then; what could he possibly contribute now, like this?
Still, he came.
It was slow going for the palomino overo – too weak to fly, he made the journey by foot, his lungs gripped hard by the sickness. Yet once he’d made up his mind, he pressed on – for beneath the illness and beyond his hesitation, Leander remained a man of good intentions. No matter how small a chance there was that he would be of any use, if he could help his parents’ homeland recover and spare whatever family he had left from this plague, he would.
He arrived late, working to catch his breath. He lingered at the outskirts of the gathering, wheezing harshly even as he strained to concentrate on the given instructions. At the disappearance of his wings, he cringed. To him, the loss of their lifelong weight was equal to the loss of any other limb – to him, it felt devastating. Despite the absence of actual injury, the phantom sensation along his shoulders where the appendages had been was more painful than he could have imagined. He had to bite back a sharp outcry – and instead he was overtaken by a coughing spell that left him feeling dizzy and faint.
When he had finally recovered enough to look about himself blearily, he realized that the majority of those who had gathered had already dispersed. He would have sighed, except for the fact that he needed to save whatever breath he could for the voyage ahead. Though it was winter in the lands, his body quickly became slick with sweat, and his wingless shoulders ached fiercely. To distract himself as he trudged deliberately northward through drifts of snow, he thought of his parents.
He thought of the place beyond Beqanna where he had been raised. Once, as a young boy, his father had taken him to a cliffside that stretched across the horizon, as far as the eye could see. Leander had been significantly less coordinated as a youth. Long-limbed and ungainly, his wings too broad for shoulders that were as-of-yet childishly reedy, he’d been having trouble controlling his flight. After one too many bruises from failed liftoffs and crash-landings, the splashed colt had begun to turn away from any attempts at flying in favor of the relative safety of the ground.
Always the teacher, Riagan had noticed his son’s deflation and self-defeat – and so he brought Leander to the highest place he could find. Gently, he had nosed him to the cliff’s edge. ‘Look out there,’ he’d said, ‘See the eagles?’ Leander had nodded, eyeing the tiny figures soaring in the distant sky. ‘They aren’t fighting the wind, are they, son?’ His dad had touched the blonde fuzz that was his mane as he continued. ‘I know it feels like you don’t have control. Your sister, Rhy, often felt the same way with her gift. It’s okay to be scared, Lee – but what if you’re fighting it too hard?’
Leander had looked up at him, tight-lipped, worried; but the kindness in Riagan’s brown eyes had been so reassuring. ‘Maybe instead of letting fear take over, you could let your wings find their own way through the wind.’ His father’s smile on that cliffside was etched in his memories, and Leander could remember his next words so clearly. ‘I believe in you,’ Riagan had murmured, ‘You can do this.’ And with his father’s belief bolstering his resolve, the boy had leapt from the precipice with wings outstretched to the vast beyond.
At first he’d plunged. He remembered the sinking feeling in his stomach as he fell through more sky than he’d ever known, wings akilter as they scrambled to catch hold of the air, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. But then – oh, then! The gangly colt could hear his dad’s voice replaying in his mind, and all of a sudden he’d stopped fighting the fall. And when Leander’s wings had shaped the wind to lift him up – when he finally rose to the cliff’s edge with sudden effortlessness – his dad’s proud burst of laughter rang out so clearly that he could almost hear it still.
It’s the sound he thought of now.
And it’s the sound that kept him going.
Leander wasn’t sure how long it took him to reach Nerine’s northern shoreline. Between coughing spells and periods of rest, he had followed the many hoofprints that had formed a path here. The waters were dark, the waves rough as they unfurled and struck upon cold sands. He could see a few figures, far out from the shore. He watched them bob in the turbulent seas as they swam to their collective destination –and it reminded him of the eagles.
So again, he plunged.
The frigid water stole whatever reserve of breath he’d had left. He gasped wordlessly, the icy chill sinking into him like daggers. In his weakened state, his teeth quickly began to chatter, though his limbs struck wildly against the currents as he made for the opposite shore. It wasn’t long before his head dipped below the surface once, twice; or was it more than that? He choked, coughed, spluttered. Too soon, it felt like he was swallowing more water than air. For a moment, his heartbeat pounded in his ears.
But then –
Oh, then.
He thought of the cliff’s edge. The sound of his father’s laughter.
What if you’re fighting it too hard?
His limbs stilled as he forced himself to inhale, sharp and clear, before the exhale that would relinquish his control. He stopped fighting so hard. Instead, he focused on his breathing – working only to stay afloat – and waited for the currents to carry him into the vast beyond. The dark waters swept him along like driftwood as he shuddered with the cold, the hairs on his muzzle tipped with frost as he concentrated on keeping his face above the water. It was no doubt still a struggle; but in the end, it was the waves that brought him to the Isle.
When his hooves finally found purchase beneath the surface once more, he could barely hold his weight as he pressed toward the icy shoreline. Emerging from the ocean’s tide, his frozen limbs felt impossibly feeble, and the wetness of his mane and tail crystallized all too quickly. Leander shivered uncontrollably, coughing – and as he made his way up the beach, a sudden faint spell caused him to stumble. He only just caught himself, feeling breathless and cold beyond compare. Yet the now-wingless stallion persisted, blinking hard against the frost to look about himself and gain his bearings, his mouth parted wide for his lungs to drag in as much air as the sickness would allow.
