It's been weeks, but the pain has not passed. If anything, it's greater than she could ever have imagined: greater, even, than the pain she had felt as a young mare staring at the tiny, limp body of her very first foal, who had slid, lifeless, onto the warm sands of Salem, destined never to take a breath. To grieve a child that had never lived had been one thing; to grieve a child that is not her own - and one who still lives - is quite another.

Evren does not understand why she feels the loss of her first grandchild so keenly. By all rights she should be overjoyed at Aysu's existence and relieved that a relative has taken her in. Evren trusts Feray as she would any member of her family, and she knows the filly will be well cared for. Yet the child's absence still hurts as keenly as if she had been Evren's own: a daughter snatched from her breast to be raised by near-strangers on another island. It's not rational, of course, though perhaps it can be explained by Arkana's rejection of the child. In Evren's mind, she had adopted the foal the moment Arkana had said I don't want it. It had been only fate, and the cruelty of mother nature, that had prevented her from actually going through with it.

Sometimes - as is the nature with grief - she can forget it. Others, like now, it creeps on her and pounces with the cruelty of any beast.

She is on a solo patrol through the woods when it strikes her - like a dagger to the heart, it sinks in and twists, leaving her breathless and leaning against the supportive weight of the closest tree. Her copper eyes are wide with the shock of it at first, then flutter shut as hot tears streak down her cheeks. She begins hyperventilating until her vision blurs and her lungs burn and the sobs seize her, wracking her body like tidal waves until she cannot help but sink to the earth in defeat.

Then there's a call through the trees, and her breath freezes in her lungs. Her ears prick, listening, trying to place the voice.

By the time she finds Bhaskara, she has more or less collected herself, but her eyes are still glassy and wild and her cheeks still streaked with tear stains. "Bhaskara," she breathes, a bewildered smile touching her haggard face. It takes a moment for her to process the fact her sister's here; it's strange seeing Bhaskara standing against the backdrop of her home. She quickly rushes forward, her eyes brimming with fresh tears, and presses her face into her sister's warm shoulder with relief.

When she pulls back, her expression of one of fragile and tremulous joy. "I'm so glad to see you. What brings you here?"