𝕻𝖔𝖊𝖙𝖊𝖘𝖘 - (Wilbur)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟏

The next morning, she woke early. The noise of sniffing and rustling, as well as the rapid French speaking of gruff men. Sally's predictions were astronomical, as was the shade of corpse-tone which blanched Inka's face. They were close but not to the point of view, so for her final gift to Sally, even if she couldn't give Sally the map to Wilmott's heart, she stuck her head into the spring where five other naiads slept, and hissed for their attention. One woke up and stared at Inka - a gorgeous girl with blue hair, it seemed to float as though it were suspended underwater. Not that it mattered, she rubbed her eyes and stared at Inka tiredly before her nose twitched and she heard the voice. In stimulation, Inka watched as the other naiads slowly woke up and in their moments, became water, trickling gracefully into the spring and making a meagre difference to the water level, much to Inka's relief.

But the voices grew closer and all that was left was Sally, staring at Inka with despaired eyes. There was a reason nymphs and naiads only communicated when necessary for survival or for information - it was so that in the instances where one would separate; the other wouldn't die in grief. It was a selfish way of thinking but there were stories of naiads crying themselves into puddles of water over the loss of someone they loved. And Inka didn't want the same for her beloved Sally. She reached out a hand and Sally took it, as the voices grew in volume and curiosity. Inka kissed it with a smile for who she saw as a sister and pulled away, watching her tearful friend vanish into the spring with her fellow peers.

Inka stood up, looking around in her bush and not seeing anything. Anticlimactic. She had the time to run off if she so pleased: and she tried until a voice cried for her: "la cheveux rouge!" A familiar voice cried in excitement. Inka turned to see the huntsman from three weeks ago, nearly a month by that point. She didn't care for that much though; it did peeve her, yes, that the man didn't let up all that time; but it wasn't as if she had a choice whether or not to confront him. She'd simply be sold within the radius of the man.

She hiked up her clothes as hounds called for her in violent and authoritative barks, she began sprinting through the grass and rocks. It was such a speed she didn't realise she was possibly able to achieve - breaking a new limit. It was like she was ready for her flight, as though she were Icarus in his tower, ready to test out his wings. And she knew where that was headed. But she'd rather die than be trafficked; that was common sense - so she readied her wings, bolting past blurring greens and vaulting over pronounced browns of warning, wood in the way - unmoving and rooted as she wished she could have been. But she fleeted over lightly and delicately, a new determination as the noises grew quieter then louder once more. Even louder as more dogs and more men could be heard. Across the stream, down the floodplain, back into the woods and then by the course of the tributary - she found herself in the familiar playscape of her past, Wilbur would be just over the bush.

She spread her figurative wings and lifted off.

Wilbur only saw her appear from over the bush, and sure, she certainly looked like she was flying, she had the light and suspended form of Philza when he was about to land or when hovering above the ground. If Wilbur squinted, he was sure he could imagine Inka with a set of her own wings, large and grey. Even so, she saw Wilbur and choked a cry as she jumped, "Wilbur!" She cried and landed, pushing off of the floor once more and reaching into his arms.

He caught her of course, why wouldn't he, but he still stumbled back as his arms wrapped around her waist the same way hers wrapped desperately around his neck, "what's wrong Inka? Inka! What's happened? What's wrong!?" Wilbur importuned as the grip around him tightened. He squeezed her and looked up, seeing a man, big and burly, staring at the pair.

"Salut, petit garçon." He greeted slowly and inched closer, "could I uh... have the girl?" He asked, accent thick and sly with a goal in mind.

"No." Wilbur simply declined and edged away, glaring at the man while bringing Inka's knees up with an arm slipped under her legs, "she's my friend," he excused blandly, it was more like he opined with hostility, "et je te tuerai si tu la touches, do you understand?" A dangerous glint shone in Wilbur's eyes. So threatening, it came as red, red for foreboding, red for bloodlust, red for a promise. The man nodded, "qu'est-ce que tu allais lui faire?" Wilbur sneered, the man laughed and pulled back a dog, "hm?"