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A beginning is a delicate thing...

The old wolf sat alone at his table in the café, waiting to meet his friend. "I have a story to tell," his friend had told him, "of how I came to be born. I have told the story in music; it's time now for you to find the words."

The storyteller knew part of the tale, from the music, and from some hints given long ago. It was a story that required three to tell it - he who was born, he who bore him, and he who forges the words. The old black wolf was a conduit, and he listened as he waited, and he scratched out parts of the story that itched their way onto his pages. He would welcome his friend to tell him the rest, but there was a beginning. The wolf's mind stripped itself to the waist, readied its powerful metaphorical muscles, and reached into the Void for the Nothing that he would bring by sheer strength of his will into this world, howling and inchoate, to be molded into Something, into the two, the voices, the beginning. It began with the stag... and with the ocean...

* * * * * * * * * *

All life came from the ocean. This has been established since the first of the truth-seekers began to realize that water is even more important than air to most of the life forms on the planet. Literally hundreds of thousands of species, sapient or not, live in the ponds, lakes, gulfs, and oceans of the planet. Even those of us who are air-breathers aren't all sapient, or at least no one can be entirely sure. That old "walks, talks, builds a fire" definition of sapient life was disproven long ago. Granted, opposable thumbs help. Even so, there are very few sapient creatures who are not drawn to the ocean, for one reason or another. A few thousand years ago, someone got a bright idea of being "reborn," using the water of a stream, a river, a pond, as a substitute for the warm, wet, life-creating ocean that is the womb. But they stopped there. One dunk, and you're reborn into whatever sort of cult they were pushing at the time. They didn't fail to see the truth; they just failed to follow it through.

He was born and unborn when I met him. It wasn't an accident, of course, although he let himself think it was. It was, however, a true pleasure for me. I had heard him play his keyboard, both in the recordings he had made and in a live performance. I had invited the shy shire to meet for tea, which he thought both charming and quintessentially British. I won't fault him for being born on the less civilized side of the pond, and were I to say that out loud, I would be grinning. It's not something that we take literally; it has been, and always shall be, a jest. The only demarcation that is ever worth noting is not one of mere geography, nor of anything so transient and mortal-made as Here vs. There, Us vs. Them, Good vs. Evil. The only demarcation of the shire's creating was made of the usual stuff - fear. In this, we poor sapient godlings share the common bond.

Tea at the seaside hotel (another something that has been, as the cliché has it, "done to death" in British tradition) was my invitation, and he took it with some little trepidation. He had no physical fear of me; he was a fine, tall, strong equine, so starkly white through so much of his coat that one could be blinded by him, if the sun was high. The streaks of black in his long, elegant mane, of his equally long and well-kept tail, and his ebon hooves marked the parts of him that were not everything he had made of himself, although what he had made was its own miracle. I appreciate those miracles, perhaps because I've been fortunate enough to see them, sometimes even to share them. I won't say that I've created miracles; anyone who claims to have created them (and yes, I mean anyone) is a liar. A miracle is never created, only manifested. That, I have witnessed, and on rare occasions...

The young shire found my outdoor table quickly enough, waving as he approached. He was casually dressed, even for the equally cliché unpredictable English summer weather. The day was mostly clear, warm, a light breeze bringing in the delicate salt air (speaking of miracles...). I rose as he approached, forepaw outstretched in a proper greeting. "Welcome to you, Flare," I said, using the name he had allowed me.

"Avon," he replied warmly, pronouncing it properly rather than trying to invoke a make-up saleslady. "Thanks for inviting me."

"After such a magnificent, spirit-born performance? How could I not?" He sat not quite opposite me at the small round table, the umbrella stand making it awkward to sit directly to the far side of me and still see. Happily, the umbrella itself moved little in the near stillness, else it would have played hob with my antlers. It was still necessary, however, as we British are notoriously sun-shy (intrepid explorers of deserts, jungles, and India notwithstanding). "I've taken the liberty of ordering a bit of Earl Gray. I thought, as long as we're working for the whole British tea experience, I'd go for the Jean-Luc Picard special. I did, however, spare you the marmite sandwiches."

He had (still has) such a wonderful laugh, this one. Still shy about it, though, as if he were afraid the term "horse laugh" might follow him. I'd heard it said of him that he didn't care much for the sound of his own voice, which is why he rarely speaks before, during, or after a performance. Of course, he speaks with incredible eloquence; he simply doesn't use words. So few seem to hear him, then or now, but that's to be expected - so few know what to do with truth when they hear it...

* * * * * * * * * *

The storyteller waited at his table, while his friend collected himself, alone, by the same ocean, or at least as same as an ocean can be. The old wolf felt across the short distance, worked the Nothing in his paws, kneading, needful, and dreamed...

The craggy seashore was as close to wild and untamed as Americans would allow anything to be. Seagulls chuckled and screed overhead, not used to interlopers in this particular portion of their habitat, but always happy to hope that someone would drop food or otherwise provide them a morsel of something tasty. Only one someone today, which is the way I like it. I'm not sure if I like this place simply because it's somewhere that I can be alone, or because it's a place that I wouldn't have been able to get to so easily, not so many years ago. It's a place I wasn't even sure existed. It's a place where I come to remember when I was born.

I look out across the waves as if I could still see him. In my mind, I can see him as perfectly as a hologram, a figure from Madame Tussauds that had come to life for me. A red stag of... well, "god-like proportions" might be a bit of an exaggeration on my part, but not by all that much. He was somewhere beyond beautiful, at least to me, and that was as true then as now. Memory has a tendency to put halos around things, no question. Especially people who are that important to you. That's as good a reason as any to label him "god-like," although he never made any such claim for himself, and I don't think he would want me to. Tough, I think to myself, grinning. If the halo fits, wear it.

Granted, it would make him look more like someone were playing ring-toss with him. His antlers were magnificent, and carefully tended, though not out of vanity. He was handsome enough as-is. He just took care of himself. His mane grew thick and brick-red around his neck down to his chest, his arms were powerfully built, and his thighs were like tree trunks. He was a runner, which surprised some; they seemed to think that his large, finely-articulated antlers would make too much wind drag for speed, but he was no sprinter, nor did he compete, not against anyone but himself. I referred to him as a beach-runner, like the sandpipers. He ran shirtless, proud, chest out, head high, his cloven hooves pounding along the sand leaving a trail that only someone of his mass could leave behind (he was 200 kilos if he were a gram, all of it muscle, or perhaps heart). His forepaws could palm a basketball the way the rest of us might palm a cricket ball (if we played that over here), and he looked like he could pick up a sports car and shift it a few meters to one side, just because it was in the way of a pedestrian or cyclist. Probably fantasy, but it's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

I was quite the shy shire horse then, despite being tall and reasonably well-formed. I ran the beach with him once, and he slowed his stride for me, I'm sure. It wasn't pride; it was courtesy. He could tell when I was getting tired, and it was he who carefully called a halt to things when he knew I'd gotten "a bit puffed," as he'd have put it. He had offered his room at the hotel to change in, offering his bathroom and its lockable door, just to prove that he had no ulterior motives. I didn't know how to tell him that I wished he had. I wasn't sure why, at the time. Now... now I know, but I had to discover that for myself.

And that's why I want to tell the story. Tristan will help me tell it, when I see him later. For now... memory tells all...

* * * * * * * * * *

He took his tea as I prepared it for him, showing either uncertainty or excellent manners. I preferred to think the latter. We spoke of our lives somewhat circumspectly, he because he was feeling shy, and I because he was feeling shy. I usually am quite the open book (one unkind ex agreeing by likening me to Fifty Shades of Gray), but I followed my intuitions. I knew him already, although I knew little about him. It's one of the paradoxes that we live with when we - how did that phrase go, "plug ourselves into the universe?" Sounds about right. My conscious brain couldn't put enough words to it, but I knew already. I just had to bridge that gap.

We spoke of his music, and its source, and its growth. I knew that I was more right than ever as he got more quiet. This was only partly because of his shyness; the rest was because he truly couldn't say where it came from. There was another musician who was well-known in our circles, and he was indeed a good composer, who could construct, generate, produce, hone, refine, and give forth quite remarkable work, music worthy of any number of soundtracks, stories, video games, take your pick. What Flare did was different. Flare, so far as I could tell, never "composed" a bit of music in all his life. He did not create; he channeled. Everything he played was improvised in the moment, and if not recorded, it would be lost to time like the soft prayer whispered into a maelstrom. He did not create miracles; he manifested them. But no one had told him this before, and the young horse had been trying for a very long time to understand why he was so wrong. He wasn't, of course, but no one could tell him that but himself.

Or perhaps a stag willing to be the conduit for his miracle.

As we finished our tea, our chat became easier, a little more animated. We spoke of things that he was more comfortable with, including his own physical needs - health, exercise, the hint of sex (be still, my beating sheath!), food, sleep, a sound and sensible way to live and to be. We took things back down to the level of the tangible, and he was more comfortable. This, I realized, was the way for him to find his path. The act of creation, at any level and in any form, is dreaming, passion, action, manifestation - fire, water, air, earth. His path would have to find its way backward, starting with what he had manifested, then feeling his way upward until he came to the Source. It's true for most of us; we start where we are, with what we know, with what we call "reality" (an uproarious joke if ever I heard one). What is sad is how many of us stay so long on the low path, only accepting what "is." I knew more for him, although I didn't know what that was.

"How long do you have here?" I asked him gently.

"Leave day after tomorrow, late afternoon." His voice held something that I wasn't sure of, at first. In hindsight, it's obvious, but at the time, I was thinking too much. Happens to the best of us.

"Have you plans for your time?"

He shrugged, his mane dancing prettily. Handsome stallion, with a fine equine's body, although there was something even more beautiful inside. "Usual sightseeing, maybe." He laughed, a sweet little self-deprecating laugh. "I must sound like a real American tourist."

"I hope you'll forgive me being forward," I said, because I'd been taught always to be polite, despite knowing what his answer would be. "Could I be your guide? We spoke of running earlier; I think tea has settled at least enough for a light run down the beach, if you'd like."

"That's what a horse does," he smiled. I knew then I was right. "I'm not much dressed for it."

"Depending on the beach, you could even be undressed for it." I chuckled as gently as I could. I'd stepped just a little too far. He wouldn't have minded, if I hadn't brought it out in the open like that. "Let's go up to my room long enough to change. I have some shorts that might fit you, or we could find something in the clothing shop. They're actually pretty reasonably priced, for a tourist trap. My treat."

Before he could object too quickly, I stood and extended an arm toward the hotel. I could see it in his eyes, slightly rolling the way that equines do when they're nervous. He accepted with good grace. He wasn't nervous about what he'd do; he was nervous about how soon he should do it.

* * * * * * * * * *

Was I ever that young? Thinking on it now, with the hindsight of all that's happened, it wasn't about my being young. After all, it was only a few years ago. It was about my not letting me be myself. That's what he knew, and I'm glad he did. At the time, I was trying to do and to be everything that I thought I was supposed to be. I was a strong horse, and at the same time, I was not very good at being a horse, the way horses are supposed to behave. I was never all that aggressive, nor passive either, but there are certain ways a horse is supposed to be, and I wasn't very good at it. Or so some said. And so I felt.

Avon never said that. He didn't even think it, I'm sure of that. He treated me like myself. He may been the first person ever to do that. He was probably the first person ever to have the chance to do that. And it all began with that run.

I went to his room with him, not entirely sure whether he might try something, and if so, when. I wasn't against the idea; I just didn't want to... what would Tristan say, "go off half-cocked?" Yeah, he probably would, but only because he's gotten to know me, the real me. He's one of the first strangers to meet me, after all these years of being a stranger to myself. But I'm getting ahead of myself. This part is about Avon.

I loved that hotel. Wished I'd booked there myself, after I saw his room, but my own accommodations were taken care of by the con staff, and I was happy with what I could get. Never have been a prima donna, hope I never get to be quite that much of an ass (no joke intended). They were giving me a lot just to have me there, although none of it was cash-money. Easier for taxes on both sides of the pond for them simply to provide room and board. I was glad of the trip, of the attention, of the audience, of the con itself. I'd packed light, figuring I didn't need much. I wasn't celebrity enough to warrant the whole black-tie gala thing (I wasn't invited to that part of it anyway), and like I said, I was one shy shire. They could do to me about what they wanted, more or less. I wasn't willing to be abused, mind you, but used a little, yeah, that I could manage.

We'd found some shorts at the shop in the lobby (he was right, they weren't too expensive, translating dollars to pounds), and he suggested that I change in his bathroom. I could lock the door if I wanted. He really was being circumspect. I knew he wasn't shy, or at least I guessed pretty quickly that he wasn't. He was forty shades of polite, though, and I really wasn't used to that, especially not at a con. Sure, we all gathered to share our favorite things, but that usually included some rather exhausting and gender-specific athletics. I'd had my share, mostly fumbling and pretending in dark rooms somewhere. Nothing anyone would want to write about. I always had the feeling that I wasn't living up to someone's expectations. Turned out they were mine.

After we'd changed (he also discreetly changed in the bathroom when I was done), we went downstairs again and walked to the shoreline, both in modest shorts, both stripped to the waist, both displaying our assets a bit, but as someone said, if ya got it... That wasn't what I was paying attention to, and it took me very little time to discover that he wasn't either. I was focused on him, no question, but not the physical. I was enjoying the conversation. He was telling me some things about himself and his life, and about the area, and about western Yorkshire (which would have been like me trying to describe Milpitas to someone who's never been to America), and even as we ran, he never seemed out of breath, out of sorts, out of stories. Don't get me wrong; there wasn't a dull moment at all. We'd been running a good, slow-but-steady pace for what must have been nearly an hour before I began to realize that I was more tired than I thought. We'd run about 12km (he informed me), which translated to about a 7-minute mile, so it was a leisurely pace, for a horse or anyone else. Just longer, more distance, than I was used to. Like I said, I wasn't everyone's idea of a horse, so I was no doubt lacking in a few important such areas. Our beach was isolated at this point, and he turned us around to walk for a little bit to cool down.

Thinking back, that's where it changed yet again.

* * * * * * * * * *

"How far do you usually run?" I asked, trying to pant a little bit, so he could save a bit of face. Poor shire really was trying to fulfill the image.

"Oh," he said, then blinked a little. "Not sure I can change it to kilometers." He laughed. It was a sweet laugh, something like from de Saint-Exupéry. "I've done 10K runs before, so how does that stack up?"

"We've been a bit further than that, at a guess," I admitted to him. He'd worked up a lather, and I knew enough not to wash it off with ocean water just yet; the day was warm, but the currents were not. We could walk for a bit. "I would guess you're not much of a sports fur."

"What makes you say that?"

"Taking care of your forepaws," I said simply. His pang of fear hadn't been lost on me. It had nothing to do with that, but it made for a good excuse, and I could see him nod a little. "You're pretty much an individualist, I would guess, not a team player. You've got great forepaws for darts, though. We'll shoot some cricket at the pub tonight. Give you the whole experience."

"I don't really drink," he mumbled softly.

"Neither do I," I chuckled back at him. "At my local, when I say to 'pull a pint,' they give me a Guinness glass with Pepsi in it! Some of the blokes tell me that it takes a 'black and tan' to give them their aim, but it seems to loosen their tongues more than their wrists."

That seemed to reassure him a bit, and I explained the rules of cricket - at least in terms of the darts game. Actual cricket, explained to a Yank, is a technical feat right up there with explaining an Einstenian rosenbridge to a juvie. It's not that Americans are stupid (some of the noisy ones notwithstanding); it's just one of those things you sort of have to grow up with to really catch on to. To an American, the idea of pitching a ball with the purpose of it hitting the ground in front of a batter is utterly foreign.

"Do you swim?" I nodded my head in the direction of the ocean beside us.

"Not just now, I think," he chuckled softly, patting his chest. He was still taking some pretty good breaths. No wheezing or anything; I knew he'd be fine. I just pushed a bit further than might have been strictly healthy. "Would you recommend a dip in the local waters?"

"It's a one-time experience."

"That bad, huh?"

"Not at all. I love the ocean here. I've been swimming in the ocean many times. It's just that I've never done it more than once."

"You aren't going to ask me to snatch a pebble from your hand now, are you?"

My laugh was in no way forced. He had wit, this one, although I wasn't sure he thought so. "How's your Heraclitus?"

"I'm afraid even to ask what sort of body part that is."

"Greek philosopher, somewhere around the sixth century BCE," I grinned at him. "He was the one who said that you could never step into the same river twice."

"Why not?"

"Will you be upset with me if I let you puzzle on it for a bit?"

The shire snorted, what might be called a nickering raspberry. "I'll probably figure out cold fusion before then," he said. "I'm not exactly a philosophy major."

"You're more than you give yourself credit for."

* * * * * * * * * *

Some sound around me made me recall that conversation verbatim, especially that last part. When Avon first told me that, I heard some sort of bird cry out - seagull, I thought, but perhaps one of the sandpipers on the shore - and a loud crashing of a large wave from somewhere beyond us. You're more than you give yourself credit for. Sitting here on this rock, the breeze off the ocean calming, soothing, reminding me of him in so many ways. It feels like him here, the way his heart seemed to ebb and flow in his voice, the way that he smelled of salt air and sun, and the way his eyes stole into my spirit to give me a peek at something that he saw within me.

I wasn't much of a philosopher, not then, maybe not even now. But the riddle was one that some part of my brain nibbled at for the entire walk back to the hotel. We kept up a conversation on other topics. I told him a little about my schooling, my very simple jobs, my feelings - usually kept to myself - that I wasn't really cut out to be much of anything special. I got along, and my music meant something special to me, and that was about as far as it got for me. I had my special interests, and I had my friends, and I had enough money to keep my belly still. It was enough for a simple shire horse. That, and my music. That was what made me different, I thought, but I never really thought of it as much more than an anomaly. An accident, maybe. I sometimes thought that perhaps I was an accident, and once or twice, I thought about trying to correct that accident. But to a simple shire horse like Flare... no, that just didn't work.

I sit here now, still looking out across the water as if I could see him. We got back to the hotel, and I remembered thinking how good he smelled. Outside, I was more upwind; in the room, he was... not "overpowering," that's the wrong word entirely. My nostrils flared of their own accord as I realized just how much his scent pleased me. I became a little worried about my own aroma at that point; overheated hoss is not everyone's idea of an ideal cologne. He stepped nearer to me, not reaching out, not pressuring, just close. He asked if I wanted to shower first, second, or not at all. For a long moment, I couldn't answer. I wasn't stupid; I got the message. I guess I just didn't know how to respond. Part of me responded quite predictably, and I was glad that my new shorts had a bit of room in them.

Silly horse. Couldn't I see, even then? Not clearly. He could. He put a tender forepaw to my chin and bent down to kiss me gently on the lips. None of that rough-and-tumble, do-me-baby, frantic move toward sex that I'd experienced before. His velvety lips pressed so gently against my own, without asking for anything of me other than just to stay close and let our lips introduce each other. And as I look back now, from my distance of craggy shores, a couple of years, and a few other important changes, I realize that was the first time that someone else had truly felt my heart. My real heart. My real, as-yet unborn heart.

Avon broke the kiss so slowly that I still felt it even as I realized that he had pulled away from me. "You shower first," he near-whispered. "I'm going to call down for a table for dinner. After, I'll show you how to play cricket. And then, if you wish to, you can come back here with me to talk. All night long. I have nothing on my calendar but you."

I remember hesitating, because I was confused. Like I said, I wasn't a dumb horse, but I was a horse, and horses are supposed to jump in with both hindhooves when ... oh, go ahead, Tristan, my silly muse, say it: "The penny (among other things) had dropped." I so want you to tell the story, my wolf. I'll go to meet you soon, to tell all that you've not yet heard from your muse, or my music. Until I can tell you, though, I'll have to rely on my memory.

So much memory...

* * * * * * * * * *

I didn't want to stop - the kiss, the approach, the physical intimacy - but it wasn't time yet. Soon, yet not quite. I don't know how I managed to resist him. I very nearly followed him into the shower, although I knew we wouldn't have gotten out for an hour or two. I didn't exactly "stop," either. That might imply that what was happening was no longer happening. It was, though.

His shower was quick enough; when I stepped in to take my own, he had hung his used towels tidily, left the fur soap and conditioners in their proper places, been very neat indeed. I smelled only the soaps, which was probably better for both of us. I followed suit, until I too had neutralized anything overly pheromonal. He was dressed when I stepped back into the room, towel-clad, and he was all courtesy in turning his back while I covered up the necessary and dressed the rest. I won't degrade the memory by calling it "cute"; he was paying respect, formally and properly. It won a great many points from me, although I hoped he'd not feel the need to do so later.

Dinner was simple and tasty, and the nearby pub was empty enough that I could show off the shire without embarrassing him. He was not one for darts before, but he learned pretty quickly. I would have had to fail badly for him to have won, but he caught up quickly enough that I only won the third game by a double pawful of throws - don't laugh, that's pretty good for someone new at the olds. (For those who don't know... that's Cockney rhyming slang - "old farts" to mean "darts.") It makes for a nice bit of contrast - new at the olds. He found it amusing too, as we relaxed with each other.

That's what was needed, you see. He had to relax into himself. He had held himself as the noble steed for so long that he had neglected to let himself shine through once in a while. His music, oh no, that was always the light shining, ever and always. There was never any question about that. All I wanted was for him to be himself. And, knowing it or not, he wanted the same.

The walk back to the hotel was leisurely and comfortable. I hadn't expected that, truth told. I thought he would be anxious. It had nothing to do with drink - neither of us had anything stronger than soda, at dinner or the pub. He smiled, and he laughed, and he was at ease. It was so very good to see. And he didn't even hesitate when we got to the hotel; he followed me onto the lift, rode up, walked down the hall, entered the room as if it were his own. And when he turned to look at me...

Those eyes, those beautiful, deep blue eyes... they told me everything, and so much more besides. Did I ever tell you that, my lovely one? Did I ever take the time, then or now, to tell you just how much you gave to me with that look? How much you proved me right? How much I felt you begging to be born?

I stepped up to the shire and took him in my arms and kissed him, for the second and the first time, and I opened myself completely to allow the universe that lay within him to fill the universe that lay within me, and the giving and taking of the moment was the First Ecstasy... and the Lesson would not here endeth...

* * * * * * * * * *

What I remember about that night... everything. I know, that's impossible; it's poetic license or something, and if I tried to write it, I'd leave something out. And when you write it, dear Tristan, there are details you will leave out, not because they aren't important, or because you, or I, or Avon, are too shy to tell. It's because, no matter what you say about not being enough of a poet to be concise in your words, you still only tell what the story truly needs.

You'll tell about his long, elegant nose and muzzle, because of his magnificent velvety lips and his deep brown eyes, the eyes that held the soul and told only as much as the beholder could stand, understand, withstand. He shielded nothing from me, perhaps because I could hold nothing back from him. That much, we knew together. For myself, I didn't know what that meant, but it didn't matter, because it was me he was reaching. Excuse me, it was Me he was reaching. Sometimes, the hoss in me was embarrassed by capital letters. I didn't understand their significance at the time... yes, Tristan, yes, the eyes, the eyes that bared the soul of one and bore the soul of another. The eyes that never closed when we kissed, nor did I want them to.

You'll tell about his scent, not to describe that magnificent stag's musk, but about the effect that it had upon me. It drove into my mind, reached something primal, something intensely sexual, but even more, something utterly original. Thread a phrase for me, Weaver of Dreams, something about touching more than just my soul. The feel of his paws to my body, the feel of his breath with mine, the depth of those infinitely seeing eyes as he gazed at me, and the way he touched... what, Weaver? The origin of my Self. The beginning of all things. The First Thought. The single most fragile thing of all... a beginning...

As I sit here now, noting a ship on the distant horizon, sailing her seas alone, I realize that we are alike and different. The ship is on its own, but it has guidance systems to tell it where the world was, what it was, and how it fits into that place. I was alone, then found. We made love all night, the stag and I, and so little of it was sexual. All of it was wonderful, because he and I were sharing an act of creation. We were literally making, creating, love as we lay together, as we gave us to each other, as I took more essence from him than merely his physical seed, because giving and taking love and life was an act of creation far more intimate, far more complex, than how kits, pups, and cubs are brought forth in the ordinary course of things...

Yes. That's what it felt like, Weaver. Those are the words. I could not say them as you do, because my words are notes, sounds, the longing within the music. Oh, what a tale you'll tell, from the tale my muse gave to my forepaws, and the words that you felt from that music...

As I looked out on the waves, none of this was conscious thought. I read the words later, though, and I reminded you of something, and you added it in. Here...

The stag lay panting in my arms, his warmth, his musk, his emotion, a protective bubble around us as I gasped for air myself. We were spent yet again that night, as the small hours of the morning began to grow large. We had talked all night with our bodies, and when we had our breaths, we talked still more. I didn't know that I had that many words in me. I remember lying next to him and wishing that I still had my keyboard with me; it was already packed for the flight back, kept safe at the hotel where I no longer needed or wished to be a guest. I told him that - about wanting the keyboard.

"Give me three words," he said, smiling in the dimly lit room.

I nuzzled my nose into the ruff of his brick-red mane and felt around in my brain for something that felt like words. "Discovery," I said. After a long moment, I managed, "Fulfillment." Longer moments still, and then came, "Regeneration."

"Give me a color," he whispered. "Or two, if you wish."

"Dusty rose," I said at once. That was not truly what he smelled like, but somewhere in my mind, his intensely woodsy scent gave me that color to keep with it. "And sapphire."

His long, nimble tongue licked my ear affectionately. "I will remember those for you. You will play for me, when you go back home. When you are rested from your journey, you will play for me. Right now, you will sleep." He kissed my forehead, right in the center of my forehead, and I saw something that couldn't be seen with my two horse's eyes, and that's why I couldn't understand what I had seen, or how. "Sleep now, Flare... and dream."

I close my eyes, then and now, and I sleep then and I wake now. Then, I heard his breath, tasted his sweat, felt his powerful muscles. Now, the wind, the sea salt, these rugged rocks. Then, I heard a name. Now, I hear my name...

* * * * * * * * * *

That day. Was the word "perfect" ever accurate enough? Waking slowly without seeming the least bit tired, sore muscles that made us remember why we probably should be tired, the discussion about airing out the room before the maids were to come tidy up, or should we allow the young, innocent ewes to let their imaginations run riot with the scent of us? We showered together (which took far less time than one might think, since we knew we'd have the night together once more), went downstairs, and partook of a proper, hearty, English breakfast buffet that, unlike continental breakfasts which were made up of croissant and coffee, included those items merely to prepare for good English sausage and bacon, plenty of eggs in several styles, toast, tea, and pastries fit for those whose idea of a good time was a diabetic coma. Say what you will about English cooking - we know our breakfasts. Damn the dieticians and full muzzle-stuffing ahead!

I showed him the town for much of the day, although I knew that we had one special date for later in the afternoon. We walked off our breakfast without bothering much with lunch. Our conversation ranged wide and long, as did our walk together. He had already become more relaxed with me, and at the time, I wondered if he knew why. I was certain of the why, by that time. Our long, slow dance last night, a waltz, a tango, a courtly promenade, certainly served to prepare us both for what would happen, and I kept sending out little thoughts and heartbeats of gratitude all day long. We stags are said to "bugle" when we let forth a bellowing cry into the gloaming. Our non-sapient cousins do so during the rutting season, and were it not for the possibility of terrifying other guests of the hotel, I'd probably have done so more than once last night. Since I couldn't give voice to the reality, at least not yet, I instead did all I could to express gratitude, and to ask for strength for this afternoon.

At my suggestion, when we had gotten back to the hotel, we changed and went for a very brief run (less than half the distance of the day before, just to get us away from prying eyes) and then for a bathe in the ocean. He let out a yip when he entered; it's definitely colder water than most people expect, but still perfectly fine for the day. We played in the waves, mock-wrestled in the shallows, and found ourselves quite happily alone, sitting on the beach, leaning against one another and watching the waves.

"Always in motion," he said softly. "That's it, isn't it?"

"That's what?"

"Why you can't step into the same stream twice, or even the same ocean. Harry-whozis you mentioned yesterday."

"Heraclitus," I chuckled softly. "Oxford will welcome you with open arms."

I got a magnificently sarcastic look for that one, and I learned up close why it's called a "horse-laugh." He gave me quite the raspberry, and I just kept on grinning. "But that's it, isn't it?" he asked, his voice - his sweet voice - asking tremulously. "The way everything keeps changing. If we went back in now, it wouldn't be the same ocean we were playing in before."

"Full marks," I said softly. I may never know what it was that he read on my face, but he kissed me for it, in a long, tender, meaningful kiss that he wouldn't have given me if we hadn't been alone out there. When at last we broke it, I said, "Do you feel it?"

He chuckled first. All gay males go for the sex joke first; it's just a fact of our nature. But he looked into my eyes again, sobering, nodding slowly. "What is it?"

"It's you," I said. And then, without knowing why at the time, I said to him, "Wolf will hear what the horse already knows."

* * * * * * * * * *

Could you have been more cryptic, dear Avon? Possibly. I chuckle as I sit here on my lonely rocks, knowing now exactly what you meant, but my guess is that, at the time, you didn't either. It's simple, now. In fact, I'll be leaving shortly to go see Tristan at the café. There's your wolf, my lovely stag, and he's the one I'm telling the tale to. You'll be telling your part too, as there are things only you know, just as there are things that only I know, even when I didn't know what they were.

That afternoon by the ocean that we could never step back into, you brought myself to me. Did you know? Tell that part to Tristan, so he can tell the story properly... but I think you did. You knew even before we had tea, before we shared dinner and our bodies that first and last time. How did you know? That's my question. But the point is moot. You brought the shire horse to the shore to help him understand who he really was, to bring him to who he really was, and I will always thank you for that.

At the time, I just asked, "What wolf?"

"I don't know," he said.

"Then why did you say it?"

"Because you needed to hear it."

I didn't argue the point. I couldn't. It wasn't arguable; it simply was. That, for the first time, was when my Self, my "horse-sense" if you will, sat up to take notice. "What ocean is that?" I asked smiling. "I don't think I've ever been in it before."

"It's quite a change," he said. And he leaned forward and kissed my forehead for a very long moment, and it was like the kiss we had shared only minutes ago, yet very different. He pulled gently away, then stood and helped me up. Still looking at me, the great stag jutted his chin at that strange, never-before-experienced ocean, and took me with him. After the first two steps, we ran, ran full tilt into the incoming waves, ran forward until we had to jump and dive into the flowing water. I closed my eyes tight against the sea salt, and I saw something. Just beyond me, somewhere inside me, something black looked back at me. It wasn't evil, only different. It wasn't different, only unknown. It wasn't unknown, just unnamed. And I heard a name, and I thought it was mine, but it was his, but we knew us and had done for so very long...

A push. A shove. A struggle to exist. My head burst through the wave, and I gasped for air, blinded until I opened my eyes and saw what I'd always seen. The shore wasn't far away, and a very short swim took me to where my hooves found the sand again. I looked about and saw the stag, sitting on the shore, bone dry. The sky was darker, it seemed, as if quite some time had passed. I didn't know then, and I don't know now. I would say that it was a trick, but that point, too, is moot. It happened. And you took the towels near you and bundled me up in them, and dried me carefully, and smiled lovingly at me, and said...

* * * * * * * * * *

"What did you say?" he asked me.

I smiled. "Pretend I said 'happy birthday.' Like a new beginning. Think you can walk?"

"How long...?"

I shook my head, silenced him with a tender kiss. It wouldn't do to tell him that he had been in the waves for nearly three hours. He wouldn't have believed me. And besides, it was only three hours to me, not to him. He was busy being born.

He looked no different, not then, but that was no surprise. Perhaps I should amend that statement slightly. He looked no different on the outside. I sat and held him as he shook for a while. Partly, he was cold; partly, he was afraid; partly, he was new. So we went back to looking at the ocean while his mind tried to reassemble itself. Several times, I turned and kissed the top of his head tenderly. I felt like a lover in fact, instead of merely in circumstance. I would have one more night to be his lover, for the first time, and I would be his first lover, then I would have to let him go, for him to go across yet another ocean entirely, to become who he is. I would long for him, and often. I'm glad for that longing; it reminds me of the life that I helped to bring into the world. He did the work, and he continues to grow into the magnificent Lightbringer that his wolf heard and found, and that his horse knew all along.

Here, Storyteller; let me give you my part of this now, so that I may tell him my love in words this time...

My sweet and gentle newborn... I was so glad when you and Equus married. You and your handsome stallion. You were still growing, but you knew, and so did he; he had for a long time, since you first met, and he waited those years with you because that's what love does. You became more and more You, every day, and then you married your stallion, and your wolf bore witness with the others, and he wrote the first story that told you someone had heard, had finally heard You, until finally, now, you have become You fully, and fulfilled my birthday greeting to you, all that time ago. That time when you came out of the water, and I held you in my arms and said...

* * * * * * * * * *

"Oh, look... it's a ram."

* * * * * * * * * *

The bell above the door to the café tinkles softly. The gray-muzzled black wolf looks up from his pages of scratching to see his friend, and he beams at him warmly from within and without. "Zeryx! Welcome, my lovely."

He stands and welcomes the tall, ebon ram into his embrace, shares a kiss with him, and sits him at the table across from him. There is hot tea in a pot, two cups, one empty, the other about half. The wolf pours a fresh cup, recharges his own.

"You've been listening." The ram nods at the pages as he sips his tea.

"From the beginning," Tristan whispers.

"Do you know all?"

"Yes. But I need to hear the rest."

The ram smiles, his sapphire eyes more blue than ever. "You're ready."

"I'm ready," the wolf agrees. "I want to hear you tell the story."

"About the stag and the ocean?"

"Yes, dear one. I felt it from the first time I heard it. I cried, and I often do when I hear it again. It is so full of dreams, yearning, passion. Tell me your story, please... just as you've been remembering it, these past years, these past hours..."

Fresh from his afternoon at one ocean or another, the black ram sips his tea - his Earl Gray tea, because it seems right - and begins. "The stag's name is Avon, and he saw me born..."

_With love to my Lightbringer Ram,

and to the Stag whose midwifery brought him to us...

never the same ocean of souls, either_