Wheeling Gull Isle bismil

Inhale.

“What is it you wanted to say to us?”

Exhale.

“You. I have something to say to you, Stockholm.”

Inhale, and hold.

All the effervescent joy hemorrhaged from Seelie’s expression before Aditya even completed his bold confession. Her bright eyes were a tumbling kaleidoscope of confusion, heartbreak, love, and guilt — and it wasn’t until the once beloved wayfarer threatened bloodshed that something rare and terrifying surfaced: anger.

Along her spine, withers, and hips, her hackles rose; her tufted ears thrust forward upon her skull; her Neptune eyes glittered with a sheepdog’s eerie intensity. It gave her no pleasure to be vied for this way. She was not a vain creature and did not relish the thought of Aditya pining for her when he had a wife at home — especially when that wife was her kinswoman! Still, her voice was a gentle plea and not a whiplash when she commanded him, “Adi. Go home. Dawn.” There was so much to process and work through here, and being angry with Aditya made her realize that she was also residually angry with Titmouse — something she hadn’t given herself the time or space to process and thus hadn’t been able to recognize until now.

Of course she loved him! Her tail whirred desperately, but it was a nervous gesture that bore no mirth. Why was this happening outside the breeding season? After her confusing first heat, Seelie had almost come to expect that the males she loved, save Stockholm, might become brutish and hurtful during the winter months. That was why `Io had reeked of sex the time Seelie and Stockholm had tracked her wounded wails in the snowy wood. “Dawn,” she repeated, invoking the name like a talisman, quailing from his stare and backing away a pace. “Mere dost. Go home.”