The light and heat of the early day, leaving Fence tired and shrouded in shadow by the time he reached the edge of home. He had moved slowly, forcing his gait and creating a bouncing trot with a characteristic look back at the bare-necked soldier as they wandered. For the most part, Fence had remained quiet on their journey back to the Foothills. It wasn't that he had run out of things to say, but that the coming shadows put him at ill-ease. Evening was no longer a time of calm for Fence, as each dark patch acted as a reminder of what he'd gone through—lived through. He still considered himself lucky to survive; he considered himself even luckier still to survive and find his way here, to this gathering of like-minded soldiers and brothers.

For with his newly acquired nervous manner there came a sort of tentative opening of his heart. He found others surprisingly trustworthy; he kept less secrets and told fewer lies. If he could remember more clearly the stallion he had been, he would have found there to be a shocking difference between his past and present self. Perhaps, then, it was better that he remembered so little.

Still, he would have liked to say his name aloud with confidence and ownership. It seemed that the words had taken ahold of him and placed a ban upon themselves. Even knowing faintly what his name was, he found it quite difficult to say. He would mouth it, chew on it and let it cross over his tongue in multiple intonations, but he could not shake the feeling that the name he was saying was that of someone else.

Fence pulled himself up into a stop just beyond the border, and with a lighthearted whinny and a flick of his tangled tail, he beckoned Emerson to follow. Hopefully the pair would run across someone of rank on a patrol, and then he could explain the situation. It wasn't simply that he wished to show Emerson the same level of kindness he had been afforded, either; as the sky glowed darker and the air chilled, he felt a fear that could only be cured by company rise to tighten the passages in his throat. Secretly he hoped Emerson would draw close enough to brush his side, to remind him that he was safe, not alone. He needed the sensation of someone solid beside him, to stop the shivers from spreading across his scarred body, lest he begin to think the shadows had returned to haunt him after all.

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