It was just a stone's throw from the ocean, that copse of sunlight and urges, drives—a stone's throw, a mile's walk, three days, years, it all depended on what you measured it in. Memories? Time? Distance? He didn't know the distance it held for him, only that suddenly he was there, having left the silver beach and the denim ocean. Sparse trees had grown thicker, but the air no darker, and on that particular day it filtered down through the branches. Dust motes danced in the peaceful air, aglow with the golden light, and the crisp outline of red leaves made a stark, but beautiful, contrast against the blue sky and its cotton-candy clouds.

This place, it held mixed memories, and Mauja paused where he was, and breathed in. Psyche, that one time. Lotus, another. And then, dreams. Everything felt like dreams, and not only the ones that had been. Everything up until the point Sarazheha had found him, and taken him so far away, felt like a dream, the life of someone else. "It's still me," he reminded himself in a hushed breath, blood spiked with ice to keep his cool. He'd never known how to act around mares, least of all when they sent his testosterone surging. Better to try and not let that happen at all, and in this place, where the scents hung so heavy in the air, he wanted to take precautions. Not for them, not for accidents, but for himself, for his own peace of mind.

He'd heard soldiers in the hird, long ago, speak of how stress and battle can change you, cripple your mind and your body, how it could make something before seem unreal in the after. Was that true of him? Was that true of life? He felt more like a ghost than he had even when he'd been one, and exhaled into the soft sunlight. No matter. With a shrug of his snowy shoulders, Mauja extended one leg, and kept going, weaving through the trunks and the weeping willow branches. There were others here, some noisy, some quiet, and most he avoided, for natural reasons.

Slowly, the heart of the grove, the lake, opened up, hints of blue between the trees. Someone was out there, a splashing noise, the thud of wings beating, something so much larger than his owl. And she was off somewhere else, anyway. Cautiously Mauja slipped through the trees, came out onto the narrow grassy bank. Not too far out a Pegasus hovered, hind feet in the water and wings keeping her aloft, in the same place—an admirable display of strength, if nothing else. "What's wrong, princess? Water too cold for a bath?" Blue eyes left the mare, and swept onto the other shore; a stallion, tall by the looks of it, stood there, all black and silvery white of hair, great leathery wings stretching from his sides. Mauja's eyes narrowed slightly, heart beating distrust, but he said nothing. Simply watched.