nothing made sense.
athalia had never really left bearclaw after she'd first found it; she had especially never gone beyond the reaches of the rising sun, and yet here she was. she was mostly positive she was going north, judging by the changes in the foliage from aspens to hardy conifers, and now, almost nothing at all save for permafrost. her head swims and her stomach roars with hunger.
every five minutes, she glances over her shoulder.
perhaps a break was what she needed. only a few days, the bruingirl told herself; only long enough for that suffocating, maddening compression on her chest to ease, to feel that yearning for home again. her sisters — a term she was still growing used to — were a little older now, better at handling themselves. she could do this. she was allowed to step away. bearclaw would be there, waiting.
and she did need this, this distance, deciding so as she crosses into the stony hills of a land that was completely and utterly foreign. she yearned to tell someone what was going on, these these these thoughts and visions and sounds that plagued her — but who in bearclaw could she tell? certainly not ameline, or ancelin, as much as they tried to understand and empathize with her. for as she aged and grew closer to yearling-hood, she was beginning to understand something about herself.
she was different.
and the only other person she knew who was different in the same way was @Sobeille.
she remembered not where sobeille was from, only that she had come from the sea, and the sea was north. if she called from here, would her voice be heard? would it be recognized?
why was she nervous?

after standing around and debating herself, athalia continues her trek for about another quarter mile before the exhaustion burning her legs prevents her from going any further. her muscles were now certainly formidable, honed in the way a primitive life could provide; but this terrain was rugged and steep. it's somehow still freezing in the middle of summer. there are so many mosquitos that her vision almost seems blurry.
this was miserable.
saliva clings to her lower jaw as she settles down for a rest, eager to get the pressure off of her feet for a time. she'd been so ready for it, until —
sobeille, the scent is unmistakable, memory immediately flooding her and overtaking her with some nameless, undecipherable urge. now that she was within her grasp, she grew apprehensive. what was she going to say? why had she done this in the first place?
why did she like the way her pulse roared so angrily against her bones?
her head raises, gaze focused intently on the slope of the moraine as if sobeille would magically appear in front of her at any moment.

sobeille.
while to anyone else it must have looked to be the most disjointed and awkward greeting, to athalia it was star-crossed and ecstatic. the only noticeable thing which graced her resolute features was a widening of her pupils and the quiet thuds of her tail.
but sobeille seems unsure, maybe. perhaps athalia hadn't been nice or welcoming enough? she blows air from her nostrils as she flops submissively upon the ground, nearly half turned onto her back.
me need you, the bruingirl whispers, subconsciously glancing over her shoulder as if someone would come up behind them. we-- talk.
she crawls army-style across the barren trail, leaning up close to sobeille's muzzle with her own, hovering still in the air. she is hesitant, at first sitting silently in the coolness of the strangely intimate moment and listening only to the beat of sobeille's breath before she says:
i think somebody want to kill me.

methinks it's-- mother.
athalia settles beside the familiar warmth of sobeille, lingering close enough to feel it radiate from her body. she tucks her tail around her hind limbs, resting her head comfortably on the other girl's two-toned paw. a silent gesture of camaraderie, of submission, of weakness.
brother, my brother, he come to bearclaw, the tight knot of hoarseness keeps her voice low. he find me, yeah? yes? he, he-- me not know how find. me think-- i think mother, she come for me. real mother. not mother-spirit.
did any of this make sense? did it matter?
tears glaze the bruingirl's wide eyes as she turns her gaze up towards sobeille yet again, pleading silently for something unreadable.