"What do you hear?" I whisper to him.
"A melodious language. One I don't recognize. Or their scent."
"An ally, maybe?"
"It's likely prey. But they could be hostile."
He doesn't sound pleased to be sharing the news.
It's a worthwhile risk. I know it in my bones.
"Let's go find out."
He doesn't move and another spike of guilt clenches my stomach painfully. He's angry with me and while I don't blame him, I also can't tell him I won't do it again.
Lies don't help anyone.
"We can't do this alone, Thivoll."
He huffs out a long breath, turns, and picks up his pace. His long strides devour the distance, then he slows down, stalking closer.
Not long after, I hear a series of beautiful sounds.
I break my silence to translate for him. "They said they can hear us coming close and request we leave them alone. What a beautiful language, Thivoll. It sounds like singing, but in no way I ever could."
I'm excited, which helps ease the pain when my throat shifts so I can start singing, instantly contradicting myself.
Another painful shift and I translate for Thivoll. "I told them we aren't hunters but they don't believe me."
I grunt in pain and then sing again. My song is intricate and beautiful, then I hear a reply.
I tense, then translate. "I told them I was taken as a slave and given a translator, then crash landed here. That you helped me. And that we hope to gain allies."
"Just keep speaking with them and only let me know what you must. I don't like you being in pain. I can wait."
I pat him and then go back to singing.
This language is otherworldly and I'm making and hearing sounds I never knew existed.
I don't know what instinct lets me know it, but from the sound of the person's singing they are incredibly sad. And I know they are male by their melodic structure.
They were sorry to hear I was taken as a slave, and that I was changed. The wind carried their empathy in the quality of their tones, the harmonics letting me know the depth of it.
I don't know if my reply has the same tonality, but I hope I give them the same sort of emotional support. "Are you from here?"
The lilting sadness of their response makes tears spring to my eyes. "No. Stolen from my aerie. I was changed. Something taken, not gained."
For a language of so few words, it takes a lot of note changes to communicate.
It's little wonder the sentences are short.
I sing back. "I am sad. What was taken?"
"Part of me," he replies. "All of me."
My heart aches from the pain communicated in the undercurrents and harmonics. "May we come?"
"You may," he sings.
