Tefnut keeps talking, keeps trying to convince Rethe that she cares for her the most. And she wants to believe so badly it sets her teeth to aching but accepting that Tefnut was right would mean accepting that she was wrong. About Tef not caring. About Tef's priorities. About Rethe needing her help.

She bristles at the flippant question posed to her - Problem with that? - and knows it will haunt her nights for weeks. Because yes, yes she did have a problem with that. Because there was no point in Tefnut owning a territory, owning the Bay if she meant that. If all Tefnut wanted was for Rethe to be with her, then why would she claim an entire territory?

And if she was fibbing about that, then maybe Rethe had been right about the rest.

Maybe.

She watches stonily as the dun mare made her way out slowly, sadly, into the surf but did not move her hooves from the rocky beach in which they were entrenched. The thing is, the black mare knows exactly what her mother will say later, when Rethe collapses in her embrace and sobs. She knows exactly what advice Kohelet will lovingly impart on her daughter and how she will say it.

And yet Rethe doesn't take it.

She doesn't cross the few steps that separate them. Does not call Tefnut's name. Does not take her place at her side. She does none of the things her kind-hearted mother will advise.

Because Rethe, for all her bluffing about wanting to face what hurts her, for all her talk about being unafraid and impervious. At her core, Rethe is a coward. And cowards don't face their problems, they run from them.

Like mother, like daughter.

She turns away, and stalks inland, leaving Tefnut in the surf.