Hushed Willows black in the magic, beauty in the tragic

The echo of his song still winnowed through the willows; they seemed to sway and undulate in time to the melody that was still fresh and repeatable in the little mimic’s ears. Sea salt tangled with the ambrosial cologne that was quite simply Aditya — his masculinity was a powerful lure in and of itself, but it was his inimitable signature of spice and heat that drew her so mightily.

Oh, he was so strong and kind — oh, he was so brave and loyal and true!

“No.”

Coelacanth quailed instantaneously, plummeting to the earth in a controlled crouch. Her Neptune eyes were wide and sought to meet his golden ones directly, slivers of whalebone communicating her unease. This all felt so painfully familiar! She was ready to be defensive this time, feathery hackles flickering to life along her spine and across her shoulders and hips; and when he repeated himself with painstaking slowness, her tufted ears folded pitiably against the hangdog arch of her swanlike neck. When he began to speak again, she began to move, setting distance between them with delicate, precise steps. She traced a wide semicircle, keeping her hindquarters as far away from him as possible, and licked her lips nervously. The bitter tang of her own fear bit through the amorous undernotes of her season, and she began to tremble in fits and starts.

There was something of the feral state she’d dragged herself out of in the furtive cant of her fox-fine muzzle, the panicky way her ears swiveled and flicked like two vigilant little periscopes. “I yield!” cried out the submissive coil of her already petite musculature. He didn’t have to sing the song again — he didn’t have to lead her to Morningside — he didn’t have to do anything!

Perhaps Komodo’s lesson, uncouth as it had been, was meant to prepare her for this inevitable tangle. As long as Aditya didn’t whip around and curse at her and accuse her of crimes she was utterly incapable of committing willfully, she would be okay. They would be okay. Wouldn’t they? She wanted to ask the Morningsider, “Why?” Why had he sung the song, if it was not meant for her — should not be meant for her — could not be meant for her? She opened her mouth to speak at last —

“I love you, Coelacanth. I love you.”

All over again, she was filled with fear and anguish and a fierce anger she did not fully understand. “Adi. Aditya,” she whispered, the warmth stripped from her voice, the syllables strung on a barbed wire of hurt that dripped acid from her tongue. She maintained her sheepdog-sharp stare, tufted ears pressing intently forward upon her velveteen crown. “I love you. Peace, always.” If this was to be their goodbye, she would give him the chance to keep it peaceable. “I choose Stockholm; Stockholm choose me. You choose Dawn; Dawn choose you.” She spoke in the present tense because love was a conscious act, an everyday mantra. “Peace be.”

She meant to leave it there, to keep her recent trauma under thick and hardy wraps, but she could not help a single, tremulous plea: “Please — I am sorry — please — ” she choked.