In the aftermath of their scuffle, though she had landed the last strike (and her aim had been true), Lysandra lingered in the shadow cast by the Mountain, content to catch her breath and quietly observe her rival with those strange eyes of hers. It would be natural for the victor to reach hungrily for their prize, whatever form it took; dominance, pretension, ownership, title. But these were not the things Lysandra fought for. Not today. And as for respect, well, no matter what anyone claimed, it was folly to believe that respect could be won no matter how many battles were fought. Respect was something that was earned, always, and in her heart of hearts Lysandra knew this to be the truth; it could take a lifetime.
The mare was a living contradiction, delicate and willowy in form but with bones strong like the iron-hard earth of deep winter. Her deep, rich brown hide, darkened along her spine, her shoulders, down the arch of her neck carried a sheen to it in the manner of polished heartwood-turned-to-stone. And there, scattered across her form, bright little sparks of white, a starmap unique in all the world. If she were to ever allow one close enough to admire them, and if she were to deign to remain in such close companionship, one would discover that Lysandra’s stars, as with most things to live upon the earth, changed with the passing of seasons.
The Mountain did not change. Though she’d never set eyes upon the towering monolith before her, Lysandra had dreamed of the Mountain for as long as she could remember. Carried here by the tides (which were governed by the Moon), with nothing by loss and grief in her wake, it was natural that Lysandra be here. Time would yet tell if she would find belonging. But however much the weary traveller yearned for that, what she needed was the truth. The summit of the Peak held the promise of this truth. And so, in the stillness that followed her contest against the Mountain’s Protector, Lysandra bowed her head, as graceful in manner as she was in body.
"I am Lysandra, and I thank you for sparring with me." The restless energy that had been consuming her (even after the arduous crossing from the mainland) had been settled into something warmer and dependable. "I would seek to know your name, and ask your permission to ascend the Mountain. I have it on good faith that I have ties to this place," the teke mare admitted freely, for there was no desire within her to conceal the truth from her friendly rival. For all the shrewdness in her expression, and the deep intelligence in her eyes, Lysandra was a creature without deceit. Her father had made sure to draw every scrap of darkness from her bones.
She waited, tranquil as a still lake, for the black and white Amazon mare to respond however she saw fit. If not now, then perhaps in the future Lysandra would complete her pilgrimage and have her answers. She could wait. Water was patient, and Lysandra had learned from it. A late afternoon breeze rolled down the mountainside, carrying with it the voice of a ghost, speaking to a younger Lysandra, drawing from the depths of her a memory that would never be forgotten.
You will be the best of us, Lysandra. Make right the wrongs, and never allow the sins of your father to settle as a sickening weight upon your shoulders. You are meant for far greater things.