She was right about being unable to keep her eyes open. Despite the pale light of dawn filtering through the trees, Faolain drifts easily to sleep in the valley. Her rest is uninterrupted by dreams, and though she doesn’t sleep very long, she wakes feeling sore but rested.

The sun is high in the sky when she shakes the drowsiness away. Her sleek mane slaps lightly against her neck, the hairs irritating a few stinging cuts from last night, but they aren’t bad. She is stiff, and her muscles are sore, but she is in one piece. So is Cerauno; the scrapes and the soreness are worth it to her. At the time, she had known almost nothing about him, and perhaps her decision to throw herself in his path had been impulsive and uncharacteristic, but he had proven himself afterwards. He had warned her of a danger and made plans on the spot to move her family to safety, and even though the danger turned out to be a false alarm, she was still grateful for the effort. She stretches out, still feeling the relief she had experienced last night at knowing everyone on the Ridge was safe, but she winces at the tightness in her body from her fall. She aches, mostly in her back, but it’s not unbearable.

Her breath huffs from dark nostrils as her legs buckle and she lowers herself to the ground. She rolls, allowing the green-padded earth to work out some of the knots in her back. She is midway to her feet once again when she hears her name, and when she rises fully, she turns to see the dun stallion stepping carefully through the clover patch toward her.

”Cerauno,” she says in greeting, noting his fresher appearance. She shakes herself out once again, her back feeling a bit better. A few clover leaves flutter down from her withers, and several more are now stuck in her mane. ”Yes,” she says. ”And you?” His injuries from the night before are clear now in the daylight, and she can see bruising beginning to form in places, but despite this he looks more collected and calm than last they had spoken. As she looks him over, however, she can see the branch sticking out of his hide, and her eyes widen a bit. ”That should come out,” she says, nodding toward the shard, unsure why he hadn’t already removed it. Cerauno strikes her as someone who does not mind pain terribly much - based mostly on the fact that he had run across the territory after literally somersaulting through the trees in order to save a herd he had no responsibility for. It doesn’t occur to her that he can’t reach it; Faolain herself is spindly and flexible, though less so today with her sore muscles.