The world is quiet, blanketed by snow. Even the creak and crunch of the white powder underfoot does not echo, but is soft, almost hesitant. It is rare for them to have snow this deep in the Falls, but over the course of the winter in the meadow she has grown used to the feel of it. Something had drawn her back to the land of her birth in the fall, but she had not quite been able to bring herself to return all the way home to the Falls. Leaving had given her freedom back, had given her world its color back, and it had (for a time) given her Mikhael and Nairne. The Falls called to her soul – but it was not powerful enough to draw her back into the fold immediately, so they had wintered here.
She wasn’t sure where Mikhael was – they become separated, or he had left, she didn’t know. It was hard to know, because he was there one day and then he wasn’t, but he had a tendency to wander even when he was with them. With a normal horse she might have been able to find him, to follow and find out if something had happened or if he’d left them, but it was not so with Mikhael, who teleported places as often as he walked. There was no trail left for her to follow, and the call of home had been strong, so back to Beqanna she went.
Nairne was asleep in the snow, a child no longer but innocent nevertheless, but a restless Natilyn left her asleep and wandered towards the stream, bright against the snow. In the Falls she had grown used to her natural gold, as the Kingdom stole away her ability to change herself at will. But since she had been gone it had become second nature again, the constant play of colors across her skin, as fickle with her color as she’d been when she was a newborn. Today she is grass-green with summer sky blue in her mane and tail, heralding how badly she yearns for spring. She’s looking at the water, at her own bright reflection, and she doesn’t immediately notice other mare.
But movement draws her head up and she blinks, finding the light colored mare between the dark brackets, and offers a quiet smile against the near-silence of the meadow around them. “Hello,” is all she offers, though something passes across her face when the smell of the other finally reaches her, its passage dampened by the cold. The strange smells of the Deserts – the smell she has long associated with Mikhael. A part of her wonders if he is there, having forgotten all about his lover and his daughter, but she rejects the idea out of hand. He would not have returned to Beqanna without a word to them. “I’m Natilyn.”
She’s usually friendly, for the most part, if somewhat reserved. The outside world had made her wary and always on guard, but something about Beqanna has set her at ease again. Or perhaps it’s the stranger who has set her at ease – perhaps a part of her soul, the part that is always with her ancestors, has recognized the woman who was once a dear friend of the family. Perhaps her grandmother is guiding her to ease from afar.
