Centaur's Wood

It was a very sweet smile, judging from what the Centaur knew of such things as smiles and faces. "I am much obliged to you for your kindness, Mistress Centaur. If we may begin at once…?" He slung the lute over his shoulder by its strap, and cautiously moved forward to find her horse-shoulder with a hand, obviously meaning to follow by touch as she led him out of the forest.

The Centaur hesitated, then spoke. "If you like, you may ride upon my back. It would be easier that way, for the both of us."

The Man’s face tensed again, momentarily, but when he realized there had been no condescension in her word or thought, he relaxed, and nodded. Before the Centaur realized it, he had swung up and over her withers, his long legs sliding down awkwardly to dangle on either side.

The Centaur shied, dancing sideways and stiff-legged over the grass, and nearly bucked him at once, but controlled herself at the last moment as tremors of instinctive alarm twitched through her hide. As fear fluttered away through her chest, she twisted around awkwardly to see that her passenger was still safely seated, if breathing a bit hard, with one arm gingerly wrapped around her human waist and the other still supporting the lute on its strap. A rather awkward silence fell, and the Centaur fleetingly noted that the strange, sealed eyes gave him the semblance of slumber still, before she hastily turned and ducked beneath the low bough of an oak, heading eastward out of the clearing, towards the pale-rising sun.

Gradually the tension dissipated, and the birds and foliage seemed to fill in the silence again with their rustling chatter. The Centaur made her way tentatively at first, unsure of her unfamiliar passenger, but gradually fell into her normal, leggy stride, as the morning light firmed and began to take on real color and warmth. The Man’s arm around her waist relaxed, and he dared to rest a little against her back. He sighed, calm enough now to enjoy the morning, in his own way.

The Centaur began to hum a little, a sound like that of turning earth, very warm and low. This was really not much different from her usual daybreak rambles, she reflected absently, laying a friendly hand on the smooth-skinned trunk of a familiar sycamore as she passed by. It only seemed natural when the Mana bard, after allbegan to weave in a thin, whispering whistle-melody over her slow hum, like that of breeze-whisked grass.

And then the Man’s hand left the lute for the first time, leaving it to dangle free, as the hand crept, trembling, to touch the Centaur’s face, cool, calloused fingers uncertainly caressing the suddenly hot cheek, and the arm around her waist gently tightened, protective.

The earth-song faltered and stopped, as the Centaur’s eyes widened and her head jerked backwards, displacing the hand delicately laid there.

But the melody began again, only that moment’s silence betraying her awe at the beautiful thing that had just happened, and there were words there now, very soft and lilting, in her leaf-husk voice, and then they were matched, in his bird’s-pipe one, as the hand found its place again, and was welcomed by hers settled comfortingly and lovingly on top.

She smiled, as the trees continued to fall back behind her, and more showed their leafy faces ahead. And the Centaur and the Man made their little music into the rising dawn.