The relief in the golden Shire stallion is evident when Faolain and the colt emerge from the sea. She nods in response to his comment about being exhausted from the swim — she is, but better to be exhausted here, where she can actually close her eyes for a moment without fear of being preyed upon by one of the bachelors.

The colt returns to her after sufficiently inspecting Tyr. He’s a soft silt color, with four white stockings and a wide, messy blaze. He is covered in small white spots, as though he’s been caught in a blizzard. He trots happily back to Faolain’s side, a wide grin across his painted little face. Faolain hasn’t named him yet.

“I wasn’t sure we were going to make it back,” she says as the colt rubs against her legs like a cat. He’s already tall enough to knock her off balance if he wants to, but he’s generally a gentle child, if a bit energetic. “I suppose I should give him a name, now that we’re home alive.” Her narrow, salt-matted neck curves downward, and she gives his damp mane a ruffle. “Renvari,” she says simply against his spotted, dun-marked withers. His tail gives a little wag, and then he bounds away to inspect some washed up critter on the shore.

Faolain moves toward Tyr, leaning against him in much the same way as Renvari had leaned against her. “Thank you,” she says quietly.