Sabrael
On the shore he shivers madly, his teeth chattering so violently that he fears he will break them. It is no wonder; he is a creature of sun and sand. His reckless swim from the cold coast of Nerine to the absolutely frigid Icicle Isle is likely the most foolish thing he’s done in his life – and he’s done plenty. He misses his dragonfire hot like magma within his breast, misses the soft leather of his wings curled against his sides. He misses the Beast, even (he’s lost without the soul he’s shared since before his cells split from one into two). He thinks if he could, he would shift and carry Wallace to safety in his claws, back to their new island.
But he knows he has to see this thing through.
Sabrael shuffles his feet in the snow as he contemplates death by instantaneous freezing. He doesn’t have to contemplate long, thankfully, as the faeries take pity on their hapless charges. A breeze like a breath of Ischian air washes over him. Goosebumps race across his speckled skin with the sudden temperature change. It brings a little life back into his limbs, at least at the surface level (he still feels heavier, like the ice has seeped into his marrow and grounded him). There is a chill he can’t shake, despite the glorious wind that swirls around him. He is not made for this place, it is clear, but he will have to adapt.
The land yawns into an indistinct white haze beyond the shoreline, as if winter itself is waiting to swallow them whole. He sees two paths, at least, trails carved defiantly against the otherwise nebulous land. Hmm, I wonder what Part Two entails, he thinks sarcastically, snorting into the grey air. He’s not surprised but still disappointed that smoke doesn’t curl away from his violent exhale – he always appreciates the added punctuation.
Just as his eyes are drifting towards his companions (hoping to spot brown and lace in the crowd), a storm kicks up and bears down on them. It’s a storm of his worst nightmares, all pelting snow and ice. He’d take a hurricane over this crap any day. But the big-bellied clouds are relentless in their unloading on the would be plague-stoppers. Sabrael hurries over to where most of the horses had gathered in hopes of finding Wallace, but visibility drops to virtually nothing in the span of a few minutes. He walks around anyway, trudging through the gathering snow, hoping to run into her.
The entire point of coming here was following her, keeping her safe from whateverthehell trouble she was getting herself into. Now, with the choice looming before him, the stallion can’t forge ahead until he knows his mission has been completed. It is obvious he is meant to pick a path, find a fork, see this thing through. But he hesitates. He hesitates while all the others move forward without him. He lingers in the hopes of finding the girl who never valued herself, has never counted her worth (she is gold to him while she sees only brown).
The wind howls and it is the loneliest sound he’s ever heard.
Surely, he’s the only one still waiting on the frozen shore like an idiot. The cold has returned to him doubly, triply, as the fairies’ breath has long since been spent. And what a waste it was to spend it on him. His gold-flecked eyes narrow against the storm, desperate for a weakness to exploit, but there is only white. White here, white there, white everywhere.
He steps to the left and his hoof crunches on harder ground.
A path. Finally. Sabrael breathes in a steadying breath and it’s as if ice splinters have punctured each lobe. It doesn’t matter though. Silence closes around him as he begins down his chosen path. He’s unaccustomed to the heaviness of it, the way it fills ears and blots out the rest of existence. His world spirals down to the small space he can see in front of him. The going is nearly impossible as he pulls himself over the alien terrain, slipping in some places where the ice has filled in the path after the passage of the others. He goes, though. On and on into the bleak white of oblivion.