There had been one other occasion that brought the black mare to the forbidding mountain that dominated the Crossing, and that had been her arrival on the Islands. It had been a long time ago, and as she trotted toward the base of the Peak she recalled her earliest memories among the populace of the Islands. Sarabi had been there almost the moment that El Aran stepped out of the ocean and ran, water streaming from her lithe, starved body, certain that she had been followed and fearing for her life. The black mare had latched onto the other mare and made a friend of her, and the two had had many adventures together. El Aran had done all she could to protect her herd mate, but in the end it had not been enough.

El Aran had never been able to do enough to save those she loved. And now?

Now she was alone, and painfully aware of her own vulnerability. The black mare was no longer young, and her body had aged less gracefully than another horse her age who had lived their life in peace. War had done its damage long ago, sinking its claws deep into her heart and forcing her to accept panic as a daily part of her life. In truth, El Aran had been more uncomfortable during these past years on the Crossing due than she had during her vigilance in the Desert on Salem— she was not used to not feeling adrenaline, and she felt more weary than ever before despite how she slept deeply through each night. El Aran had given up caring about her own fate. It did not matter, now that she had no one to protect.

Still, she kept a smart pace until she reached the mountain and felt the ground beneath her chipped hooves begin to tilt upwards, and she slowed to a walk as she pulled herself up the gradual incline. She might be weary and old, but she had strength left to her, and she used it now though it made her muscles ache from the exertion. She needed this. It would help her in the days to come.

El Aran strode up the Peak, ears forward and tail half-flagged as she stared at the path she had chosen for herself with grim determination.