amaroq
in his own country
even Death can be kind
even Death can be kind
D
usk finds him a shadow beneath the surface of the sea, hunting. Finding prey is easy, here; the creatures of the sea are unused to such as him, near enough to shore that it is too shallow for the whales and other predators of the deep. Patience rewards him with a harbor seal, young and foolish and far too brave, who sought to touch a unicorn. For his recklessness he won a quick and bloody death.
Though not his preference, Amaroq makes quick work of his meal at sea, and leaves the rest for the fish and seagulls, who berate him in throaty voices as they gather like flies above. He grins at their pretend outrage, knowing well they are as hungry for meat as he - and then he makes his way carefully, carefully to the cliffside.
Oh, he wishes for sea-ice as he rides the tide inland, with the crashing of churning water against ancient rock echoing in his ears. But it is a summer-sea still, and even his magic is no use to him here, with the saltwater warm around him.
So deliberately, delicately, he navigates the waves, drifting inland with only his head and the spiral of his horn above the water. When the water sighs back before another rush, when the rocks are stacked before him crusted with barnacles and salt, he pulls himself up and out of the sea and shakes himself like a wolf or a bear. And then he picks his way among the rocks and little tide-pools, the deep clefts and the driftwood, until he reaches a wide platform of granite a few feet above the highest tide.
The sun is near to setting, now, the whole sea the deep color of a new-cut jewel.
The kelpie glances up at the cliffline, knowing he is unable to see even the glow of the city from here - but still Amaroq is compelled to look. There is nothing but an unbroken line of rock, and ragged clouds above - and then a shape. Wide, bright wings, a dark face and chest; it is hard to tell, in the growing dim, if they are looking at him as well. But if they are he is unmissable: pale throat exposed, hair like a shroud of snow, blood on his chest and on his face like paint.
As the waves dash themselves to foam against his rock, the kelpie dips his horn like a knight’s sword to the figure that stands so high above him. It is a mockery, or a greeting, or a dare.
@Marisol | hope this works!
