She would be two now, Loretta. My daughter, she would be two years old. Archibald noted restlessly to his companion, his ears twitching softly as the cool Orangemoon breeze bit them. Loretta, not knowing how to comfort her bondmate and master, stayed silent, padding gently next to him without a sound at all. The pair moved like smoke across the land, making their way towards the shrines that once stood so proudly, waiting to be prayed to and kneeled before. Now, however, the shrines of each god were nothing more than ruin, reflecting the blue essence of the churning fires beneath them. Archibald pressed on, despite the real presence he felt of the gods on the island, towards a more solemn place. He needed it now, a quiet place of shelter to mourn his fallen bird without judgement on his strength. The behemoth's golden eyes were dark, their fierceness lost in a mask of sorrow and quiet. Loretta, feeling Archibald's growing need to find solitude, whined slightly before turning her heel to bound away. She would do her own mourning, connected to the brute only by their spiritual bond. Like she loved the strong sons that roamed this earth, the bitch loved the stillborn filly as if it had been her own pup. Knowing she was gone but making no gesture of it, the Captain continued his path.

No scent warned him of her presence, of her ghost, all burned away by the sheer magnitude of the ocean hued lava. It was only when he lifted his eyes did he stop--and gasp sharply. Before him stood a phantom, a blue-grey statue that was his. Sunken and sharp at her points, Circe was mere meters away from his touch. Surprise swarmed his chest and relief filled his lungs. Ever muscle in his body screamed to gallop, to close the distance to his bride and engulf her in all of himself. He could not will his limbs to take flight, however, his feathered feet planting themselves. What would she say of him? Twice now had he left her alone in the wilderness, a time past where he scouted the wilds of the north, and just months prior to this moment when he ventured into the World's Edge and fought for his position and glory among their hierarchy. Would she slash him as their son had done, verbally release her anger and hurt? No. Circe was more than that.

Circe was love.

Finally, Archibald lifted his hooves to press onwards. "My dearest Circe," He started, just fox lengths from her blue-grey figure. Normally unreadable golden eyes swam with emotions that the shadowmere had a gift for perceiving. Gently, slowly, fighting himself from throwing her into the curve of his neck, under his protective and strong hold, Archibald touched his muzzle to her shoulder, nuzzling her affectionately and carefully.