Porcupine Ridge the things we lost in the fire, fire, fire

Here. It had been here.

Not the ground where she stood, but the peak above, rising high and ominous into the clouds. She could still smell the ozone, taste blood in her mouth. Her pelt had grown back but the scars remained.

Why return? Perhaps not to these mountains, but she'd felt a yearning for these lands. Maybe a home could be made in the place of fireflies, where she'd first met Varick. They could raise their remaining children there. . .

Or the valley below? There was a familiarity to it, something she couldn't quite grasp. It certainly didn't ring the kind of bells that the mountain did.

The mountain, she would never forget. But with her mate's help, she had piece by piece put her mind and soul back together. She was whole again.

She stood silently overlooking the vale, wind lifting her ebony pelt. Miyako had returned.

tiny post for now but 0: !!

Another, sunknived;
her nostrils flare wide and pink as she looks upon the obsidian-struck vagrant; had she, too, been alone and terribly vulnerable for it? That sword in the sky that had come for her? The kind of thing that was drawn to unguarded flesh as hound to hare? Had she slept to the depths of herself? Been refashioned in myriad manner? Enquire all perched upon ruined mouth:
but Andraste could not speak, for the undertang of iron that did not come from her had taken root within lungs; the mem'ry of searing eidolic lashing up throat, wordless. Her mother might have reprimanded her of staring so shamelessly  —  for shirking now the skyclime patrol for that lurking lioness.

Eventually, however, the fée found herself; sealed her red lips, and whiled away the next few heartbeats with looking o'er the vale, herself; more than a bit abashed. Insatiable wonderment flickered within hesitant halfsights, telling all that which she could not bring herself to say:
I am not so alone, in this.

Movement, and her eyes darted, finding the pale woman nearby. What? she asked, slightly testily — who stared like that, besides someone who wanted a fight? 

And then Miyako noticed the jagged scars cutting through the ivory pelt, and found that her breath came short.

Just like yesterday. . .

Can I help you? she added, a little more politely. There was a kinship between them, one she wasn't certain she liked. Nothing against the woman; anything that reminded her of trauma born from storm clouds was unwelcome. Even those closest to her knew not to broach the subject. 

That singed, senseless wolf: that had been Snowe, and Miyako had long left her behind.