"I am still alive," he told himself for the thousandth time or more, his quiet whisper punctuated by the strong affirmation of Irma, like a solid push of warmth in his cold mind. For a moment longer his eyes remained pressed shut as he rested in the shade of a tree, the side of his head leaning against it. Somehow he was still afraid to trust in what his eyes saw, in what his memory and heart told him was true, afraid that it wasn't; that it was all a lie, that he'd finally lost it. That he thought he was back but he wasn't. That none of them were real. That one day he'd wake up and the demons would cackle, saying got you! and waggle their tongues and fingers and tails at him. Or that he had died, and lived in a land created from his memories. He wasn't sure which would be worse. Another breath of fresh spring air in his lungs, and he set his jaw. This is real. I'm back. I'm not making a fool of myself in front of some...deity. His pale eyes slipped open, staring down at the white owl sitting by his front hooves. She was always watching. Always there, to warn him of danger, to convince him he wasn't mad. That he was alive.

How had he survived so long without her? Now that he knew what it was like, to share such an intimate bond, to bear the heart of another next to his own, he wasn't sure he could survive without it.

How long did owls live?

That dark thought had no place in his mind, not when they had not even spent a year bound together — merely months had passed since he had been spirited away to find her egg. That first time, it had been harmless. For a moment his ears fell back, but then he gave his head a shake. No time to dwell in the darkness. His frosted hooves set out on a well-known path, carrying him through the Threshold forest as his eyes lazily swept across the trees, and Irma disappeared into the skies. Scents tugged at him, though he found no reason to investigate them; most were too old, already gone, or smelled of Pegasus feathers. And besides, if he kept walking, he'd find someone sooner or later.

And this time, it was sooner. A stallion, dark roan in color with three white legs, stood in a clearing, quite relaxed. While it was not unusual in itself, most didn't feel that home in this forest, unless they were like Mauja and practically lived there. "'lo there," he whickered as he walked up to the stranger. "Is there something you seek?"

Perhaps I can give you something. (Like a home.)
Though certainly not what was on Kibo's mind.

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