He breathed in. The cave smelled of cave, and young horse, and that peculiar smell of all things newborn—clean and almost chemical in some way. The little cub itself had realized the world was to be observed not upside down, and sat by the protective hooves of its friend and caretaker. It was, simply put, adorable, with its tiny, fuzzy body and baby face. Not that it stayed righted for long, tumbling with the grace of a young, bendable creature. Youngsters were hardier than you expected.

Mauja's blue eyes drifted up the colt's face. It niggled at something in the back of his head, some memory hidden behind the detached dreams of air-castles and the warm, dull ache of fire arcing through his bones. Something dark, it touched darkness, shadows and horror, anger, loyalty and some kind of terrified surprise. He breathed out in a long, slow sigh, a slight frown creasing his forehead, around the eyes, wrinkling fine, dark lines in the otherwise smooth face. "For everyone's sake," he agreed in an absent-minded way, his mind still lost, trying to claw its way through the dream-like state and into real, tangible memories. But it was hard, when nothing had felt real for a few hours, and the voices and steps of others kept floating through the prismatic tunnels, echoing from far-off places and distorted by the mane planes they echoed against. It almost sounded as if everything but the child's voice was heard underwater, swallowed by the stillness of the sea.

But his world, which was like the slow swirl of dust motes in rays of golden light, fell down to the ground like so much stained-glass and shattered, swept away by the bubbling river of Sacre's voice. White lids closed and opened rapidly over blue eyes, some sense of clarity restored to them—and details he'd previously not been able to register slipped into his mind. The red splotch, like old dried blood, on a black flank; the red horn, red ear, crystal blue eyes piercing his own.

It was the colt, the one who'd run up north. Somehow, he'd found his way here, safe and sound, for which Mauja was grateful.

He still wasn't used to these general feelings of kindness and care.

"Sacre," was the first thing he said when the name's owner finally fell silent. Mauja's voice was gentle and lilting, a sense of bemusement lingering like fragments from his shattered, waking dream-land. "I am Mauja-" no more, no less, "-and, yes.. after a fashion." Could you say he'd been in a fight? Probably. Won? Maybe? He hadn't defeated the wolf-child and Ktulu, but neither he nor Circuta had been swallowed by the darkness—they'd fled, alive and relatively whole, with no darkness seeping through their veins and transforming their flesh. They still bled red. "You know the shadow-creatures? Like those in the Basin? They attacked me, but I managed to escape."