the waterstained crone arrived easily. she had not fought the waves as they carried her out and pulled her down, down, down. she had smiled as water clogged her lungs, and wrapped around aching joints, and hair tangled around her neck.

it was home, was it not? the wild sea, cold and cruel, clutching one of her devout so dear.

when she awakes, she is laid out on her side in snow, like a sacrifice on an altar. mirewen did not fret—much. it was too cold. it made her bones ache and chest rattle with a cough that followed her even here. she does not curse it. age is proof of survival.

nonetheless, it forces her upright, and spindly legs find purchase against broken stone. her long fur drags through water, gathering ice and reeds. cloudy eyes sweep what little she can see, and her chin tucks into fur that falls in long, wet tendrils around a new body.

her nose twitches, testing the air.

oh quiet silver sister, she rasped, teeth snapping softly as the worried voice carried through the ruins. they can’t hear you yet.