Water did not always take; the ocean had borne Charybdis and Faolain safely to the Ridge of Atlantis without incident, despite the steeliness of the rising waves, and the echoes of thunder in the distance. The white woman had settled well enough in Faolain’s home. The shadowy Guardian had been wise in her telling of the ocean view from the high-rocky outcrops the territory was named for – Charybdis had taken well to the perilous, winding trails that led to the great heights, and it had become something of a ritual for her, setting off from wherever she was within the Ridge’s borders without word or warning (sometimes even departing mid-conversation), to begin her trek. And she’d take her place there among the bluffs, diligently watching the setting of the sun, counting the days.
Today, though, she sent stones skittering down the cliffs when she was drawn dangerously close to the jagged edge. Eyes were fixed upon the sea, but she did not admire the way the sky was cast in fire, red and orange and the first hints of the deep purple-blue hue of night, nor did she wait with hope flickering in her heart; ever watchful for that forever-mystical flash of green. Oblivious to the danger, she flowed down the path, trusting her body to be as water and follow the path of least resistance. She dashed through the lush jungle as though a life depended on it (and who was Chaybdis to say that it was not so?).
But bursting onto the beach, and splashing into the sea, breathing ragged and sides heaving, Charybdis feels her heart sinking like a stone into the dark depths, falling quickly out of reach. Her face crumples momentarily, and she trembles there for several long moments, before turning and storming ashore. “Tricks, more tricks, it cannot be, I saw ‘er, I saw ‘er, comin’ back t’rough the hungering water,” the dripping wet mare laments beneath her breath. A sudden sharp stinging pain had her cringing, and the tang of blood taunted her foolish dreamer-heart. The body of her was scratched in places from her mad dash through the terrain, and though she could not see to be certain, Charybdis suspects the half-healed wound across her red bay shoulders near the base of her mane has been reopened.
Movement not far up the beach draws her attention. The pallid mare lifts her head and nickers softly in greeting, squinting against the sea salt in her eyes, and unable to make out the figure in the waning light across this distance. She shambles up the beach, eager for company to distract her from the heavy disappointment she feels. Just as the storm had taken from her, a storm of another kind had taken from those that dwelt in the shadows of the Ridge, and in her own way, Charybdis had mourned with them, and for them. “Faolain?” she calls softly, shoulders still stinging fiercely, hooves sinking into sand. If it was not the black mare who had led her safely home, but one of the others (whom Charybdis was eager to get to know), the smile that unfurls across her lips in silent greeting would be the same.
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