Onward he travels, this time following the bank of the river the falls feed as he walks opposite the energetic current. His dark head bobs with each step and he pauses now and again to lower his head and comb his damp feathers. Often he is distracting by light glittering on the surface of the water, and all the variety below. Pink river rocks rounded to pebbles scattered among gray and black stones likewise softened by the river’s persistent kiss, the silver swish of little fish, the constant dazzle of sun-on-surface....
He pulls his head up, blinking, to find himself finally at the base of the waterfalls themselves. They are an impressive sight, made more significant by the horses made to look small standing almost directly beneath the powerful cascade. One wears a thick stripe of white in a mane darkened to the color of mud clouding water, her coat warmed only by the barest drop of amber honey. The other is wider of haunch and shoulder and bears a similar swath of white in her obsidian hair. Her coat, too, has only the faintest touch of color in it: the promising glow of a spring dawn.
Rille is still wet in patches on his withers and hips from his recent swim between Luthien and this island. He turns on the dry bank and hops down into the water, sloshing enthusiastically toward the two mares who are already immersed. He feels rocks and pebbles kick and roll under his feet as he wades out to meet them, his own dappled hide smoothed to the black of a midnight, star-speckled sky.
He comes upon them with a high-held head, ears pricked forward, as the raven-haired mare introduces herself as Relke. “I am Rille,” he offers, looking between them both, nonchalant, as if he has not newly arrived and has in fact been a part of their company this whole time.