There is a sound – the crunch, crunch of the earth under moving feet. All the attention in his silver body turns that way, thin keening muscles spinning the jagged angles around, presenting the unseen stranger with a face armed only with that single dagger of a horn, sharp still with lack of use but insignificant. In the world of his kin, he has ever wielded a knife against swords.

The stranger bears no cutting edge, at all.

She is like that other mare he saw, down south – yet altogether different. She carries no weapon, for one – not even between the teeth, not anywhere. Feathers clothe her sides instead, asymmetrical and stark, like the confounding pattern of a flocking bird. Caneo blinks at her and blinks again, his mind shuffling rapidly to lock together all he sees. On top of it, she speaks, and her voice is a bright call, a shard of sunlight through the glass at his back. He must be excused for staring; he has no metric against which to weigh the course of the conversation. He has only momentary knowledge of winged unicorns – of hornless unicorns – and the uncertainty gleams in the brilliance of his pale eyes.

“Hello.” He recovers quickly enough, every string of energy in his body fighting against the urge to step back as she draws near. Nothing in her promises the merest hint of violence – no, she reminds him of Lena. A fragile, almost shy, sort of smile finds its way across his face. Caneo says nothing else, though. Rei fills the silence for him; the words pour from her, quick and bright, and bemused he can only watch. She is more than Lena; she pushes breathless joy into his ears without pause, as if they are old friends, as if he has practice in saying anymore than a word here and there, a question as it catches his mind.

In the briefest pause between her words, he offers up a nod. Then she races off again. The tale is of a place called Lytninia – a myth, for all he knows. But she seems lost in the story, and politely he listens, his eyes all the while covertly tracing her strange patterns of black and white. Delicate and clean, this creature of the sky. He almost wants to laugh; what fallen angel ever shone with such a brilliance, ever thought to see him? He has never believed in such things; he still doesn’t, but he likes the look of her, and the sound of her voice, even if she comes at him with too much force.

When she pauses again, he feels her eyes on him. Caneo shifts slightly; it is not a measuring look on her face. She does not seem prepared to strike – merely curious. And he, curious in the same way, watches her watch him. “That sounds very terrible,” he murmurs, meaning the story. War. He hardly knows that word, either – only lawlessness. Briefly his thoughts drift back, to the silver glint of the sand in the moonlight, that crescent hanging like a scythe above the black oasis pools. Rei’s voice brings him back again, and he listens as she continues to speak – oh, and to speak and speak! Would she even notice, if he were to leave?

He thinks about wandering off, though not out of malice, or even boredom. Caneo merely requires silence – a moment of it – to recollect his thoughts. She is so much he nearly drowns the way the cave threatened to drown him. His eyes roll from the strange beauty inherent to her figure and search the tundra once more, pausing – wide again with surprise – upon the flame-licked silhouette approaching.

His heart leaps; he thinks it Roland, at first, but upon more than a brief inspection he finds the creature hornless. Female. She joins them in silence, and silently Caneo watches her, tension once more trembling, lightly, under the pale velvet of his hide. She carries upon her back a creature he thinks to call kitsune, this one black and white. Only the questioning noise of Rei’s voice recalls his attention to her; with a jerk, the narrow head spins, ears twitching to split between the two mares.

“Why was it that I got started into this story?” Caneo opens his mouth to reply, startled by the look of chagrin on her face – as if she has been rendered suddenly conscious of her own long-windedness. But she speaks again before he does, and his teeth snap together with a dull click. She talks about something called snow and ice – and then her foot gives way, a narrow thing, caught before she crashes to the ground. The movement flares in his brain like an alarm though, and startled, Caneo darts back, a surprisingly quick movement, agile on the long, narrow stilts of his legs.

When he stills, his gaze finds the chestnut mare – also spooked. Breath heaves in his lungs; his heart, awake now, hammers loudly in the narrow confines of his chest. “Careful.” The first word in a long time, the silver voice breaking a little more loudly than before. He speaks as gently as he can, with the noise of his heart like a war drum in his ears. The winged mare begins talking again, though, complimenting his hooves, and bemused Caneo merely blinks at her. “I guess so.” He peers down to look at them, and then across to look at hers – and again at the red mare, so quiet, much more comfortable than the pegasus but also dangerously unknown.

At last, it seems, Rei falls silent in a more permanent manner, and Caneo speaks longer words, his attention flickering between the winged mare and the quiet one. “When I was little, my grandfather told me stories are important. They light up the paths we’re meant to walk.” He smiles gently in the wake of this, secretly triumphant at having said it in such a normal way, so that it sounded almost as if he’d had a family, and lived in a place with a real name. A place like Lytninia.

His ears come up with interest when at last the chestnut mare speaks: soft voice, gentle words. Caneo finds it somehow easy to believe they mean him little harm – perhaps this place is getting to him. Or perhaps he’s getting better at reading intentions, though he hardly feels that way. “I enjoyed your story.” says the nameless mare, and Caneo nods quiet assent. He turns back to Rei, waiting for her to answer the question before he speaks again, though he knows he ought to give his name, and perhaps ask for the fiery girl’s, as well.

There will be time. He recalls many lectures on the virtue of patience.