Sea Lion Shores your heart will fly on wings forever in never never land

The desperate need and confusion that swam within the inky Shadow’s sentience died down to a weak flicker as she listened to the bright-eyed Atoll talk. Her feathered sheepdog’s tail weakly stirred in the gold-and-cream sand, collecting granules like tiny fireflies against her atramentous fur — she had kept many secrets in her short life, but the siren of Tara’s were among those most dearly treasured. Nestling her finely-sculpted head against her friend’s sand-dappled flank, the halfbreed closed her bright eyes and imagined the red dirt plains and cracked creek beds — the azure sky shining in startling contrast against the ruddy towers of dusty red stone — the way the storms must have rolled like ocean waves of sound and scent through the canyon’s labyrinthine corridors. Coelacanth herself was not particularly fond of storms, but the telling of them was beautiful. Again and again she rubbed her cheek against Hind’s daughter’s hip — wordless variations of “tell me more,” or, “what happened then?” or “what will you do now?” — but overall, the Shadow’s unspoken message was the same: I am so glad you are here.

The nearby woodland pack was Donnelaith, then — and Skellige’s pack would be founded not far from where the yin-yang tangle of Atollacanth lay. Inwardly, Coelacanth feared for the sea lions’ puppies, but life and death was simply the way of things; she could not condemn the seafaring wolves for their dietary habits. Most interesting to hear about was Szymon — the canyon wolf’s love. Coelacanth had yet to be stirred in such a way; in matters of the heart she was a blessed innocent, even more naïve than Deirdre Stella Mayfair, of whom the little witch doctor seemed to be very fond. What she felt mainly was a mixture of happiness for her friend and worry for Marbas. It was entirely possible that, faced with a more concrete vision of the Atoll’s interaction with her packmates, Coelacanth would feel a twinge of jealousy — but here, in this moment, they were merely stories. Unreal. In this moment — in this particular corner of the world — there existed only the siren of Tara and her Shadow.

Seelie’s tail continued its feeble whirring, her catlike paws kneading into the sand as she tucked her streamlined muzzle more firmly against the Atoll’s flank, deep, steady breaths fanning the cream and silver fur of her lean abdomen. “Oh? Who are you?” wondered the inkdark girl, for although she knew many of Hind’s daughter’s secrets, she did not know her name. It was more Shadow’s style to receive names than to bestow them, but she found herself conjuring up a short list for the younger female: Rabbit, Singer, Pooka, Piper, Tide, and Lure flitted through her mind in quick succession. Yet the mute halfbreed was a lover of words, and found compound words of her own making to be more to her liking. Dusk Singer, perhaps, she thought, rubbing her cheek against the girl’s dusky fur as she sang, or Eventide. Sycamore? Sparrow? Goldbrush? She nibbled lightly at the sweep of the siren’s shoulder.

Deep within her throat, Seelie took up a steady, kittenish purring.