It had been months since she had seen the Threshold, precious time had passed and life had surely changed for the denizens of Helovia, for the denizens of the World's Edge, even. 

Yet, things had changed for the rose as well. 

Having traveled so far to find the earth that felt familiar beneath her hooves, to feel the blessed sands whip against that pristine hide like so many needles; it had been a rebirth and an actualization. Pretty names and childish notions of honor and loyalty had made her forget her purpose - had made her weak. Secrets whispered by frozen ponds to behemoths, worldly desires admitted beneath a pink sky in the arms of kestrels, glass wind chimes and flower crowns in the guise of innocence; all weakness and all shameful.

It had taken the mare many weeks to banish cobalt blue eyes from her mind, to wrench dreams of elephants and embraces from her thoughts. She was no dove, no broken bird to coddle and handle with a gentle pity - no, Orithia was wind and sand and blood boiling over, iron and stone and rage eternal. 

Those days sipping the lie of happiness at the hands of others had come to an end, the seconds that she had wasted upon that false dream of harmony were nothing short of a disgrace. Proudly she would stand, bitter air she would breathe; no man would tame her, isn't that what she had always said? And yet, she had come so close, so close to losing that essence upon the tides of what she thought was affection from a Child of Elephants. A sharp laugh fell to the earth, the inky cruelty of it threatening to rot the mosses underfoot. 

Never again would she be mistaken for such a wretch.

Never again, never again, never again.

Distantly, she wondered at the lover she had taken upon the sands, the soft sighs and silvery eyes of an immortal god. There were no touches between them, no physical bond to put to memory, but love manifests in different ways for those of similar hearts, and all she was left with was the feeling of breath against her skin and the name of the future.

Yet the question still remained - why had she returned? Some nights, when her silhouette was painted silver from the moon's brushstrokes, she told herself it was from simple habit, a base instinct toward familiar homestead. Other days, Orithia told herself it was for revenge, for blood and retribution - but from who she did not know. In the end, when pastel hooves pressed against the soggy earth Orangemoon's wrath had left, the banshee had no answer and desired none.