The afternoon is warm enough to send snowmelt rustling down from the treetops like a cold, inconsistent rain. Fell passes under the heavy drops without minding too badly when they hit his back and roll down his sides, but when a particularly pendulous droplet splatters right between his eyes, he gives himself a startled shake.

Who is it? comes a voice from ahead of him. He recognizes it, and it comes as no surprise to him that Rethe’s inquiry is fearless. Still, he feels bad for possibly startling her, and gives a soft whicker as he steps guiltily out of the damp shadows. Fell hadn’t intended to follow her as he walked the familiar trails of the Bay, and he wonders what she’s doing so close to his own patrol route on her own.

Despite the wrenching of his heart every time he sees her mother’s face in Rethe’s own, Fell has tried hard not to push his daughter away. With time, the pain has faded to a dull ache, and the black filly has grown into her own features. In his head, she has become less of a reminder of Kohelet, and more of her own person each day. Today, when he peers apologetically through the dripping pine boughs, he sees only Rethe, the headstrong and protective young mare. He gives her another whicker, his nostrils fluttering as he stretches out his muzzle to greet her.

"Rethe," he whispers, his voice ragged and almost too quiet to hear, but it holds a kind of affection if the listener is open to hearing it.