A long walk, indeed.

        They travel in silence, starlight glittering cold and lonesome overhead. The sun has gone; the shadows press in on Caneo’s flanks like wolves, but brushing soft. Every now and then his blue eyes flicker up, charting his course by the light of that strange heaven. They are not his own stars, though he thinks he knows a few – the places all wrong. They serve him no better than signposts in the wrong language; he sighs, answers their gibberish with a minute shake of his head. Something stirs in the slow beat of his heart, not homesick, but... Not homesick.

        As they walk, the land changes around them: long, long shadows of the forest giving way to rock and mountain, field and foothill. He studies the changes in silence, his gait unerring after the gentle pace set by Roland. One hardly needs stars for this journey; in time, Caneo expects to memorize this place by landmark alone. In time. And how long does he expect to stay? He watches Roland move ahead, dusky flame under the flawless black of night, and wonders. This – this journey – tickles some long ago memory in the back of Caneo’s mind. Despite his earlier reluctance, he slips into an old familiar pattern: follow silently, obediently, unwaveringly. He thinks of a time past and another set of hooves, those so much larger than his own. He thinks of grey eyes and the guiding light of stars, like a map. Back then, they always moved at night.

        With nothing better to do, Caneo every now and then watches his guide as well. Roland’s attention darts back at intervals, as if the older unicorn expects his new charge to drop suddenly, exhausted by the weight and hardship of this life. But Caneo is enduring – he knows this about himself, if nothing else. His slender legs churn steadily, mechanically, practicing by rote the first truth this body every learned. He notices, too, tension lurking just beneath the shadowed surface of Roland’s skin – not plainly visible but stirring here and there in the quick jerk of the noble head, the flash of ears. The thief moves nervously, and Caneo’s mind whirs in curiosity as he blinks at the shadows of rocks and trees. What frightens Roland now, that never did before? The silver shape moves up to pace close by his leader, never touching – never even close – but certainly nearby. Caneo wonders, after a time, if his limbs would even answer any call to run, but he puts the worry from his mind.

        Such concern is itself exhausting.

        The mountains reach out to consume them, no longer hunched figures on the horizon but real, looming silhouettes blotting out pieces of the sky. Caneo studies the giants, toes skimming over pebbles like forgotten shrapnel. “It gets quite cold in the winter.” Roland speaks without preamble after so many hours of silence. Caneo’s ears twist to catch the words; he blinks, swallowing the information. “Cold?” The air now kisses his velvet skin with a touch like frost, though he knows nothing of ice. “But summers aren’t so bad.” With a nod, the boy returns a question. “It’s summer now?” He stares at the mountains again, claustrophobia scratching over his flesh like spiders.

        Without warning, the bleak walls surrounding them suddenly fall away. A valley spreads below, lit by the stark light of stars, the weary hangnail of a crooked moon. Caneo’s lungs fill at once; he drinks the mountain air like a man surfacing out of the sea, and for the first time his steps falter to a halt. For a moment he stares, tail curling around his haunches. Imagining the scene in daytime, he chances a glimpse back toward the pass, marvels at the way this place is hidden, folded behind walls of rock – like a fortress. Then with a start he moves again, head shrinking down in something like apology – a half apology – the motion strangled before its completion. His hooves skitter over the shadow of something at the valley’s edge – a silhouette like his but thicker, bulkier, immense. He smells a strange, sharp taste around it, though Roland speeds past as if unnerved, and Caneo only looks back as they pass, ears flickering, eyes wide. “What is that?” It disappears into the night behind them, silent as the rock. But it was certainly a thing, and not imagination, and not earth. He turns to Roland, questioning, forgetting exhaustion as his senses buzz to life.

        They halt at last before a lake – oh, water – and the old instinct kicks at Caneo’s mind, and his blue eyes swing across the shore in wary hesitation, searching for phantoms long gone, grudges long settled. He finds the landscape quiet, tranquil in its beauty, and the moon shines on the black ripples of gentle waves. “Welcome to the Basin.” Roland has chosen a good place for the announcement; one ear cocks absently back to the noise and Caneo nods. His companion has a flair for delivery, though he fails to process the extent of that, for the moment. He nearly trembles instead with the weight of it all, the sudden enormity of his decision and the consequences of becoming swallowed by the strange place. A quick glance at Roland, perhaps in search of comfort, and Caneo paces toward the water on soft, nearly silent, feet.

        “Thank you,” he says, remembering his manners, though not quite certain what he is thankful for. He stops at the water’s edge to drink, his swan’s neck curving down briefly before snapping up again, eyes flicking back and forth, following patterns ingrained during childhood. But nothing evil stirs; he steps back, watching Roland again. And what happens next? The trail stops here, the journey done – Caneo knows of nothing to come after. He only knows walking. “What do you do here?” The question is more honest than most of his are, but helpless he is forced to bare the truth of it, to some extent. His eyes rove the ground as he speaks, searching for the telltale sway of grass - another habit, though he feels strange falling to graze and his attention is caught too many ways at once, shivering between old truths and new.