The cream colored girl hadn’t vanished as he once feared she might. Just as he still liked to imagine she had washed in from the sea, the threat that she might be swept away by it was still very real. Almost daily he saw her, and many nights they spent together, wherever they found shelter or ended up laying down their young but tired out bodies. He tried not to overwhelm the angelic creature with too much of himself, but neither did he wish to allow the girl to forget his presence. In his zeal to keep her happy (if she was happy, she would stay), Pripyat Soul had showed Arye Cybelle many of the places he frequented. First had been the empty cabin he found with all the strange cubby holes in the floorboards, which he filled with trinkets from Halifax, having moved his collection from the ranch house to the empty cabin. Hesitantly he had showed her the ranch house, or what was left of it, which she probably would have found on her own, explaining to her that he no longer stayed there since the storm. The boy had taken her to Firefly Fields one night and spent the evening star gazing with her, and on another evening he escorted her around the Hill of Graves and together they had sounded out what few names were still legible on the gravestones. They had even climbed through the Red Vine Hollow one afternoon, plucking at the scarlet leaves that consumed the land there. Yet he hadn’t taken her to the one place that meant anything to him at all.
Almost the day before he had taken her there, he had thought of it often. Yet the mood hadn't seemed perfect, and if he brought her to the beacon everything had to be perfect. Pripyat refused to create a memory with the girl that was anything less, and so far through his rose colored glasses they all seemed to meet his standards. Yet the day and grown late and they had separated that night to allow each some semblance of privacy. When he fell asleep he fell asleep thinking of her and the beacon, and the dreams that came to him were composed of the same images until the light of dawn chased them away. When the prince awoke with an empty space beside he felt a gnawing loneliness. The boy knew he had no right to demand Arye always to be near him, but he had grown so accustomed to her nearness that when she was missing he felt lost. To ever admit this to anyone, his father or the others, was unthinkable. The pleasurable anxiety that filled him at the thought of her was far different than the one that constantly plagued him and it was a private matter. If Jefferson should inquire about his scarcity it could just as easily be chalked up to the guilt he felt just as well as the infatuation he experienced. It was this infatuation that spurred him to seek her out the moment the sleep cleared from his head. Wet charcoal nose on the end of his muzzle set to work, retracing his steps the night before and tracking the lady down to her own secluded sleeping space and with a low “woofing” sound announced his presence.
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