Faolain had not realized how spoiled she was by Atlantean seasons until she spent several days in the winter of the temperate islands. Her body was stiff and numb when she finally made it back to the white sands of the Ridge, the fresh cut on her muzzle stinging from the salt. She trudged only a few paces up the beach before kneeling down into the soft sand, and rolling onto her side with a groan. The sun beat down on her with delicious warmth, thawing her frozen bones, and there, she slept.

When she awoke, the sun was setting, and her head was far more clear than it had been when she washed up. She could not easily recall the events of her time spent away from the Ridge, and when her mind tried to process what had happened, the memories seemed to slip nimbly away. She had not forgotten — like little glittering fish, she could see them swirling around, and could study them from afar — but when she reached into that pool and tried to grasp one, tried to look at it up close, it wriggled easily out of her grasp. Why couldn’t she think about it? Could she talk about it out loud, if she tried?

Gathering her spindly legs beneath her, Faolain heaved her battered body upright, and trudged toward the treeline. She was still stiff, perhaps even more so after sleeping, but with each step she loosened up a bit. Each press of her hoof into the earth as it transitioned into fertile soil brought her away from Luthien, and out of the fog that stubbornly clung in her mind. Her throat burned, but she needed Rivaini as much as she needed water, and for a few moments she could not decide which one to seek out first.

Finally, she turned to the steep path switching upward along the spine of the Ridge. She would look for Rivaini first, and if she was lucky, she would run into water along the way.