Golden Glade à travers la forêt de nos cœurs

It's quiet here, and she wondered if perhaps he too needed the escape. He may have been young but she reasoned that his feelings were just as valid as her own. His life had been heaved about on a greater scale than her own, though the scope of such a distance was relatively limited. She could not quite fathom the trek through plain and forest and over mountain alike to get to where they were now.

Of course, she had never believed that her mother would abandon the plateau as she had.

Or her father.

But like children were wont to do, even her in her adolescence, he pushed the conversation along.

”I'm Phoebe. Who are you?” Or perhaps she should have asked, which one. Her parents had told them loosely of Rannoch and Liffey's brood but she couldn't have told anyone which was which. He was definitely cut of the Blackthorn cloth though—that stripe on his back. Finley crossed her mind then, though it had been an age and a half since she had seen the matron to recall just how they were all connected.