Freya's isolation does not last long. She spots the mare from across the clearing, and it feels like looking at a reflection of herself in the glassy surface of a pond. She can see the weight of the mare's years bearing down on her, bowing her back and sapping the shine from her copper coat. But she moves with purpose across the clearing, and Freya admires her grace.
They come together wordlessly, two fates converging in silent harmony. Freya finds she doesn't mind the stranger's company. Companionship has been such a rarity these past few years, and she's more inclined to hold onto it when it does come along. What a change that is, she thinks, from the days of her youth when she was almost constantly surrounded by others, answering the beck and call of her children and her herd.
Their amicable silence stretches on for only a moment, before the stranger speaks: 'You know these Islands, and they've called you home too.' The mystery mare says, and Freya briefly wonders if it's that clear to see. Is she such an open book that this stranger can read her so easily? Or perhaps it's deeper, kindred spirits recognizing one another.
"Yes," she murmurs in gentle affirmation, lifting her head. "Though it's been so long, I feel like a stranger." Sadness colors her tone, hazy blue eyes sweeping over the land that used to be so familiar to her. It still is, in that it hasn't physically changed, but something feels different about the Islands now, in a way she can't quite place. Her gaze finds its way back to her companion, the wistful expression on her face shifting into something closer to curiosity. "Are you always so good at reading others? Or have I just grown very transparent in my old age?" The question is accompanied by a good-natured chuckle, a smile touching the dun's face for what felt like the first time in years.
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