There was the possibility that the Akalak would follow them. This made his insides rearrange themselves at the thought that, with every ticking moment of his pounding heart, his shadow would be trampled by the violent footsteps of the green pursuer. This haphazard path had been chosen by the rising place of the moon, and faith in one another’s whispered words of encouragement. The light of the moon, their only lamp in the dark, was just enough to bat away the low reaching branches within inches. He at least hoped that they were indeed heading towards the north-west.
Those serendipitous minutes of the initial clasp had slowly worn away its charm on a numb mind. Coming to, it was as though he had woken up from a catnap during the height of summer. There were no words spoken for another time, relying on the tender interchanges of the padded fingertips. Looking at her flushed face, he wondered how far this lovely stranger would follow him, they both relying only on some old-fashioned duty from their forefathers as guides for the new world. He laughed a little, with a sweet tone of reflective revery, and kissed her forehead. “Have you ever been to Ravok?” he asked. “It is the loveliest in Mizahar at this time of year.”