It had been a long day.

After the conversation with the three Peak mares, only one of whom Impa had recognized —and that one had been a filly at her mother’s hip when Impa had last seen her— the spotted mare ventured further up the mountain. Initially her plan had been to find Mouse immediately upon her return to the Peak. But I’m a coward, she thought to herself as she watched where she placed her feet, picking her way through scattered rock and shale on the steepening incline.

When Impa finally stopped, it was near the highest point of the Peak that she could reach without worrying about how steady the earth beneath her feet was. The draft mare was not a goat, after all, with dainty, tippy-toed hooves to balance on. Half-blind as she was, Impa didn’t want to trust to luck by venturing further up. Her current height was just fine, and the air cold enough to cool her to the point of almost feeling chilled. She took long, slow breaths in the thin air as she looked out over the island. Everything below looked comically small.

Unusually contemplative compared to her father, Impa spent a long time standing at that height as she considered the state of the Peak and where she fit within the sisterhood, which soon led to a myriad of personal dramas, and before she knew it the light of day was fading to dusk. Relief and regret warred within her as she turned and made her way down the mountainside. She had not seen Mouse at all, nor scented or heard her. Impa’s only link to her grulla friend was Osprey. In the morning, she would seek out the girl and ask after Mouse.

The guilt she managed to assuage with that thought flared to sudden life when she heard a familiar voice— and the call was unmistakably for Impa. The black blanketed mare paused only for a moment before shifting toward the direction it had come from, and she hurried down the mountainside toward where she knew her friend was waiting. There was no time for her to organize her thoughts or prepare an apology, or even consider trying to avoid this confrontation for one more day. In that instant she realized she had become Anath— she’d disappeared without a word, and now she was back. And just like the golden mare had done, Impa would hold herself accountable. And, she promised herself as she came upon the small, compact form of Mouse, I won’t do it again.

“Mouse,” she said, and jogged to a stop. Once, she might have pressed her nose immediately to the dusty grulla shoulder of her friend, the flesh still scarred from a memory unspoken or perhaps still unrecalled. Now, Impa extended her muzzle toward the smaller mare, but left it up to Mouse to accept or decline the invitation of physical contact. “I— I’m sorry.” And even though she feared what she might see there, Impa kept her right eye on her friend’s face. The draft mare would not look away from the wrong she knew she had done.