They run with purpose, and it feels good to cover ground with long, hungry strides. The earth is wet, and the stream is surely swollen from the rain, but they don’t feel the droplets that fall from the sky. Instead, the rain collects in the canopy on the wide leaves, and the trees deposit curtains of water intermittently across Faolain and Cerauno’s backs as they run. It is a steady downpour above them, but the thunder has quieted, and Faolain hopes the storm will continue until any fires are quenched.

As they draw near the site of the flames, Faolain’s tension grows, but her irritation at the situation has melted away in their run. She still does not smell smoke, and watches Cerauno as he comes to a halt and observes the area. It is free of scorch marks and smoke, and no ash accompanies the rain in its journey to the ground. Relief begins to tentatively unfurl within her as she takes in the stand of trees and undergrowth surrounding them, perfectly lush and green.

Faolain turns her attention again to Cerauno as he voices his confusion. To the black mare, the progression of events is clearer, but she does not fault the dun stallion for his confusion. ”It is alright,” she says casually, her voice patient and light. ”I’m glad the jungle is safe.” She does not presume to tell him that he’s just had a nightmare, and that it’s all in his head; it’s not her place to do so, and the things that happen in one’s head can seem just as real as a tangible event.

It takes her a moment to realize that he’s crying, and for a moment she does not know what to do. She does not think his is the kind of sorrow that words can soothe, so she stands there with him in the rain, close enough that their fur brushes together but their skin makes no contact.

After a long stretch of silence broken only by the heavy pattering of rain, Faolain turns her face toward Cerauno again. ”How are your injuries?” she asks, her head dipping a bit to observe the cuts on his legs. ”You made the run here quite well for the tumble you just took.”