Endless landscape stretches out before me, expanding passed the horizon on all sides, the greens and tans of hamlets and fields and open forestland more vibrant than I could ever dream of seeing any other way, so much more brilliant than my human eyes remembered. Clear, endless sky above me, all around me, the air thin and fine and crystal-clear and sharp. I tilt my wings/fingers, let the new current take my body, and I soar above a bank of cloud, seeing each facet and valley and rise on its intangible surface. A strong wind whistles in my face, smelling of water and good earth and trees and game. It ruffles through my feathers/hair, its slipstream propelling my aerodynamic, powerful body onwards towards the horizon, and what waits beyond. The sun warms my back, the wind caresses my face, and my soul is filled with the utter, pure, unchallenged joy of flight. I tuck my wings/arms close to my body and plummet in a free-fall for the pleasure of it, screaming in delight. My voice is the piercing shriek of a bird of prey. A hawk, to be exact.
I pull up against the wind's breast, riding on a gentle under-current, coasting. It was so beautiful up there. I never wanted to come down. The trivial matters of my raptor's stomach and wing muscles that would eventually tire meant nothing to me, while I soared up here in the sky, the domain God meant for eagles, hawks, and holy angels. I let my hooked beak plow against the air as I turn tail to the clouds and shoot earthwards in the controlled dive of a predator that has sighted prey, moving in for the kill. I hadn't. I just loved the incredible feeling of plunging, hurtling at the mercy of gravity and my own muscles. I climb again, gaining altitude and confidence, leveling off high enough so that the road beneath looks like a long, thin, pale snake wending its way through the countryside. Training my eyes on the path, I spot a single horse and rider, a great black desiteir called Goliath, who is my friend, and a fair man upon his back, dressed all in black, who is also my friend. My heart swells.
I open human eyes and stare into the darkness of middle-night. The moon is dark, so I cannot see the wood planking of the ceiling above me. I breathe deep the scents of heather and newly-threshed hay, of cool night air and dew on the grass. Linen sheets—such a change from the rough bedroll I had become accustomed to over the last two years—drape my naked body, the woven quilt pushed back and tangled 'neath my legs. It is still a little odd to me, sleeping in a bed, with a roof above me and walls about me and a floor that is not earth beneath, carpets that are not last years' leaves and needles. Perhaps that is why I dream of flying. Strange, that as a beast, I had been left in a nearly-complacent darkness, left without memory of my human life. Strange, that now as a woman, I dream still of flying on hawk's wings, the memory sharp and clear in my mind and heart, filling me with a slightly guilty surge of longing. I cannot lie to myself. I miss flying. Though I would not go back, would not trade the life I have earned, the life I am living, for anything, I miss flying. I suppose I always will. There is nothing for it. It's like a scar, the lasting token of a deep wound. I bring my hand up and absently finger the scar on my shoulder, surprised slightly to feel sweat on my skin. The scar has glossed over smooth as satin, now, with silvery tissue, puckered slightly at the rim: the scar of a mortal puncture wound. The ache of it has gone now, gone as the feathers of wings that hadn't truly been mine. But I suppose wounds taken to the soul take longer to heal than simple arrow wounds. Perhaps it will always hurt.
Slowly my eyes adjust from the glaring sunlight of my dream and I see anew the darkness of the sleeping-chamber that belongs in this here and now. The sheer drapes at the window flutter slightly in the cool breeze from the garden, and starlight pools on the polished floorboards, for all that the lighted face of the moon is turned away. I had always hated nights like this most, when the only light was that of the fire and far-off stars, and some nights I had dared not light a fire at all, for fear of discovery or worse fiends whose names I dared not utter. I had rued the exchange, that the sun was hidden always from me, and that on moonless nights I was left to grope in the dark, swathed in obscurity, that I was left to wait. Powerless, if not completely helpless. Nights like those, when hunting was bad, I would go hungry, sit in the embrace of some tree, wondering where in God's grace I was. I cursed the daylight, that I was never permitted to know, and cursed as well the darkness that blinded and hampered me. I cursed the dark hours when I was alone, the time when I was allowed to remember that I possessed a soul, a mind, of my own, only to be reminded that it was indeed only by half, that all I owned was halved. At first I had wept for the hopelessness of it. Months later I had come to live with it, almost accept who I was, and who I was not. But the bitterness of it never left my tongue.
It still feels strange to me, like a dream, to live a life free and unfettered, unsure if I am truly living, unsure if I am awake or dreaming. A smile tugs at my mouth. 'Wondering if I'm asleep, dreaming I'm awake, wondering if I'm dreaming.' It all feels like a dream to me. I lived an unreality for nearly two years. Reality feels less the real for it.
An animal growl beside my ear causes me to turn my head, but not to start. I see his face, pale in the dark, so handsome and fair and beautiful. I still cannot believe that he is mine, truly mine. I know that dreams of running through forests with the moon gilding the black fur of his back still haunt him; that this is what plagues him now, just as I. I stroke the white-blond hair from his brow, feeling the sweat also beading his skin. There is little need for the brushing, as he crops it so short. It is just the simple act of touching, of contact, the comfort of skin against skin, performed as much for myself as for him. It is so amazing, to be able to touch him at last, to see his face, the sharp nose, strong jaw, thin lips, blue eyes startlingly bright.
He jerks in his dream, lips raised in a bestial snarl his sleeping body does not put voice to, and I place my fingers against his lips, trying to quiet or calm him. I know not if his dreams are torture or bliss, or I would wake him. Perhaps, if he wakes, he will tell me. Perhaps not. He will tell me if he feels the need of it. Etienne was always one to bear suffering in stoicism. I suppose that is what saved him, those years of rising and falling with the turning of the sun. Of course, he had the grace of sunlight, of traveling by daylight, and so had the mastery of what little destiny was ours. I had little choice but to follow where he would go, waking up somewhere different every evening, usually unable to recognize where I was, though too numb by then to feel any sort of panic or even annoyance. I hate being passive.
He shudders again, and I banish such bitter, petty thoughts from my mind, forever. No sense in dwelling on a past no one can change. There is only memories, and only the present, and hopes for what the morrow will bring. I place my hand on his shoulder, and his eyes open. For the barest second, they are empty and bleak, unhuman, uncaring. A bad dream, then. But then his human eyes open and he sees my face. The smile that lights his face banishes any lingering trace of darkness or doubt, and fills my soul with unspeakable pleasure and gladness and thankfulness. He takes my hand, and we lay for a moment, not speaking, just touching, our thoughts private. He smiles again—so expressive and beautiful, lighting up his face—and beckons me closer. His arms go around me, so much stronger, more corded than I remember, so much warmer, so much stronger than mere memory could recall. My lips beneath his curl into a wide smile. Who needs flying?