Entirely dazed by the sight of the sky and the feel of the grass on skin, on bare human skin, the sheer size of her and the feel of having a beakless mouth again, Porphyria grinned deliriously. And there was Arven above her, looking far less giant than she had gotten used to him looking; no chance of her perching on a shoulder or a knee now, thank you.

But she took his hand gladly, curling her fingers around his wrist and marvelling at the excellence of having hands again, and not just feet. She had to laugh at his remarks as if the last months of her life had been nothing, his easy air infectious - but even with his help, the moment she hauled herself to her feet and tried to saunter forwards she lost her footing like a newborn foal, her knees apparently unused to bending in human ways. She grabbed on to him again and stuck out an arm, as if were still a wing, for balance.

“Intrepid, I like that,” she exclaimed, and then snorted. “Though I think it might have to be learning to walk again,” she admitted, almost ruefully. “Have you ever gone four months without moving like a human?” (Who knew what had happened to him in his adventures; he had told her some but she was sure they’d barely scratched the surface.)

Still, if walking proved this hard, she was going to miss flitting about more than she’d thought.

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