Wheeling Gull Isle below her mouth

Tags for reference.

Coelacanth did not seek out the Earthstalker immediately upon his return. She told herself that this was because he needed time to reacclimate — and to help dear `Io reacclimate — but the island knew its Aralez sometimes better than she knew herself, and when she peered at her reflection in the clear, still surface of Skybowl, a coward’s eyes peered guiltily back. The isle, under governance of sea and sky, born of a storm, was not always kind — but it was always truthful. Seelie was afraid.

She wanted all to be forgiven and healed between herself and the angakkuq. She wanted to achieve a pinnacle of perfect serenity, despite her grandmother’s constant assertions that such a feat was impossible even for gods. The truth of the matter was that @Komodo had frightened her that day in the Labyrinth — on the heels of ruining her playdate with Driftwood! — and these smirches on the medicine man’s previously unsullied armor had forced Seelie to acknowledge something she didn’t want to see. More than that, Komodo’s assertion that she was a tease and @Aditya’s torment only a few later had shown the Aralez a side of herself she didn’t want to see.

It was hard for the Groenendael to accept imperfection in others. It was virtually impossible to accept imperfection in herself. Not even @Stockholm knew what had really gone down in the Labyrinth or the willow grove, because she couldn’t bear to tell him and have him realize that she was not a good dog after all.

Her restless wandering led her to the Strand, and as if placed by some divine hand, there stood Komodo himself, his chest and belly licked by the waves. He rocked with them, rooted to the earth, water, and sky. Not for the first time, Seelie recognized the Earthstalker as a supremely attractive specimen of masculinity and strength — and her focus turned inward to ask her grandmother: do I have to?

No. But you should.

Coelacanth pressed forward, the trembling of her limbs absorbed by the soft, cool sand. She did not stop until both forelimbs were half-submerged, the feathering at her wrists blurring like cuttlefish ink beneath the surface. She did not announce herself; Komodo would feel her, surely, or the ocean would tell him.