Distance presses down on him: an accumulation of time wasted on his lonesome, speaking only in vague glances at the stars and conversations in his memory. Has he missed this place? Has it left hooks in his heart, to pull him steadily back with each step he took away? Caneo longs to move again, but now only to drag his body nearer this stranger. He expected nothing from tonight, but now he remembers too keenly the stretch and flutter of his heart when last he stood under the Threshold trees.

        “Maybe you are,” fails to satisfy him. Maybe is a teasing word. Caneo stares at the wolf as if in search of a better answer. Once, the sharpness of its teeth would have inspired fear. Now... The desert lies too far behind him. The sharp end of the moon, the smell of blood, the blackness of the water... dulled by memory. A thousand other things pile atop his childhood, bending the sharp lines already drawn. Has he forgotten fear?

        Curiosity remains. When at last the stranger moves, Caneo grows very still. Not like a moment ago; now he waits like his childhood self once waited for a butterfly to rest its wings upon his nose. The moment hangs fragile over them both. In the stark palette of moonlight, she is dark, but Caneo thinks, brown. Brown like a forest floor to match the green of her eyes, and the shafts of white spilling around them. (colors dancing in the throes of summer, glass between Caneo and the sky)

        He shivers.

        It's a nervous twitch, reaction to that word she calls him at the same time delight rings through her laugh. For a strange, terrible, unreal moment, Caneo fears he might wake up. And what if he finds himself alone with the stars again, with only memories of those he met before?

        But he doesn't wake, and as the feeling passes, a real memory draws into focus: snow falling, the scent of cold, the muted glass a false sky overhead.

        Exhale.

        In this land of gods and magic, time repeats itself. He blinks at her, remembering she is a sleuth, like Roland. The name escapes him but everything else pours in. He promised her something, didn't he? Caneo isn't sorry, but he does feel... something. Like watching figures in the distance shrink to dust.

        "Good," Caneo breathes, echoing the mare. He chuckles. "Did... you ever see it without snow?" Wishes suddenly she was looking for him.

        He didn't even know what snow was, then.

        But the thing yawning in his chest leaves him vulnerable, and instinct moves to close it off. Shifting his weight, he nods a bit. Perhaps age makes him braver, but he is no fool, and he hates the way he wants to stay here, wallowing. "I left," as if it isn't obvious. "Are things the same here?" Is there anything worth coming back to?