like a jar, you housed infinite tenderness
and infinite tenderness shattered you, like a jar

Oh. No one seems to know from whence she came. If it weren’t for the throbbing of her chest, Yael might even question of it wasn’t all some elaborate, magical dream. It’s a ridiculous thought, but she isn’t really living in logical-land at the moment. All her strength is focused on staying in reality. Her tear-filled eyes drop even more. It’s so hard to think; the fog is thick as pea soup, and every course of action that Yael might have taken is no longer available to her. Only a pair of golden wings remain (she has to yet to notice the changes, the black tips and the spots, the darkening of her main, and the gifts tied to her body). They could carry her up, up, and away… but where would she go? With what energy?


With a compass that is completely out of sync, without even an inkling of an idea of which direction to head, and facing a very cold wind, Yael finds that she has only one logical choice. She is no longer immortal, and so she must face the limits of her body.


Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Practically untouchable in one moment - and weak as a filly the next. She’d forgotten how cold winter can be, how the wind crawls into bones and nestles in her joints, how even her wings cannot keep a persistent chill from settling in her extremities. She is not made for this weather. She will not be made for the Basin or the Edge either, but they are her only options at the moment, and their freely given goodwill would have made tears well up, had she not already been crying. Her head bobs up and down in assent, as she manages to look directly at the two mares. “T’ank you,” comes a little stronger than before, as the golden woman mentally rallies herself for the trek to wherever it is they’re going.


“Yael,” is offered as quickly as she remembers that the white mare - Erthe? - had asked her name. Yah-el, it sounds like, but smoother. As if there were just a tiny hiccup between the two syllables. Everything the white unicorn had said was in the back of her mind, and she sifts through it to find the right bits - oh yes. Names. “T’ank you, Ert’e ahnd Lyahna… and…” her gaze shifts down to the little filly, who has remained quiet for quite some time now. “Xoo ahr you?” she asks softly, doing her best to smile. It’s weak a best, a small upswing at the corners of her mouth.


The mother in her can’t help but wonder where Tariq and Tzion are. The thought almost breaks her all over again.