The sound of pain ripped from Oliver as he hoisted himself high, has her looking in every direction too fast. At him and whether he's going to fall right over the other side, and every direction around them. The peaceful waving green trees and the long stretches of pale sand and the endless blue waters, looking for the eyes that must have heard it like a bullhorn. A man. A man on Paradise Island. A man on Paradise Island a gasp away from death already.
But it comes back, as Oliver, bleeding all over himself, and now her horse, tells her what to do with him. Like he isn't dying.
"I know what I'm doing," she says, a little faster than she expects it to come out, with her last words taking so much effort to string to choices, but something in it pricks and prickles. Because she does. She knows what she's doing, and she's proved as much. Again, and again. That she knows what she's doing, and she earned her place at The Princess' side just as much as she'd been chosen for it. She's knows what to do.
Which . . . is actually pulling out a length of rope, to do what he said, but she'd known that would probably coming before he had said it. Just like she already knew where they were headed, and how fast they probably needed to get there, for her to get away and get back . . . before he decided to bleed out on her all over again. The knots go tight, and after a tug, καναρίνι does say, quietly. "I am sorry for this."
Which isn't hard to question what she means, when a second later, her hand finds not another rope, but the flat, strong side of the stallions neck under her fingers and palm, and she makes another of those noises. Faint but distinct, tongue against the top of her mouth, and the barest edge of a whistle right at the end, and then they're running as one. The horse staying beside her, even when her hand falls away and he could outpace her quickly.
To the caves, with every sprinting step intoning a desperate prayer to the Goddess Aceso, that Oliver doesn't die now because she's trying to save him.
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The sound of pain ripped from Oliver as he hoisted himself high, has her looking in every direction too fast. At him and whether he's going to fall right over the other side, and every direction around them. The peaceful waving green trees and the long stretches of pale sand and the endless blue waters, looking for the eyes that must have heard it like a bullhorn. A man. A man on Paradise Island. A man on Paradise Island a gasp away from death already.
But it comes back, as Oliver, bleeding all over himself, and now her horse, tells her what to do with him. Like he isn't dying.
"I know what I'm doing," she says, a little faster than she expects it to come out, with her last words taking so much effort to string to choices, but something in it pricks and prickles. Because she does. She knows what she's doing, and she's proved as much. Again, and again. That she knows what she's doing, and she earned her place at The Princess' side just as much as she'd been chosen for it. She's knows what to do.
Which . . . is actually pulling out a length of rope, to do what he said, but she'd known that would probably coming before he had said it. Just like she already knew where they were headed, and how fast they probably needed to get there, for her to get away and get back . . . before he decided to bleed out on her all over again. The knots go tight, and after a tug, καναρίνι does say, quietly. "I am sorry for this."
Which isn't hard to question what she means, when a second later, her hand finds not another rope, but the flat, strong side of the stallions neck under her fingers and palm, and she makes another of those noises. Faint but distinct, tongue against the top of her mouth, and the barest edge of a whistle right at the end, and then they're running as one. The horse staying beside her, even when her hand falls away and he could outpace her quickly.
To the caves, with every sprinting step intoning a desperate prayer to the Goddess Aceso,
that Oliver doesn't die now because she's trying to save him.