He is alone – and then he is not.

        More hooves abuse the path behind him. Caneo turns, the muscles under that slim neck blade sharp. Someone like fire moves against the grass, the sky. Someone like fire, yet unburning...

        Those knives behind his eyes retract an inch. He moves to face the orange girl with cool reserve. He knows her; knows the name she gave him then, at the mouth of the glittering cave. “Tandavi.” One piece of a silver song, broken and glimmering. The music of his voice plays flat; he stares at her, eyes tracing the line of her back and resting for a moment on the flower in her tail – that flower. The look on his face isn’t malice, but surprise. Caneo blinks at her again. For the moment, he swallows his congratulations.

        Those blue eyes sweep down to Natraj instead. “Hello, Natraj,” he murmurs, smiling that same empty smile he knows well how to wear but not as well how to act. He falls silent again and waits for Tandavi to speak. She followed him; she must have followed him. He saw her there and now sees her here – but what does she want? Has she not already won something? Doesn’t she have family, a herd, a sisterhood of people like those people in the Basin whom he ignores?

        Caneo watches Natraj still when Tandavi speaks. His narrow ears sweep forward to catch the words, holding them for a moment before giving back any of his own. Why are you sad? Is it sadness inside him? If it is, then he is always sad; always, and yet no one has asked that for a long, long time. Because I am alone, he thinks, but doesn’t say it. The solitude hangs on him like a shroud, pinned by the jutting angles of his bones.

        For her, for those kind eyes he meets now with warmth, Caneo smiles again. The effort this time lights him up, though still that black thing in his chest beats hollow. Cold. “Do I look sad?” he wonders. “I was thinking about something. That’s all.” He lies and even as he speaks, he isn’t sure why. This body moves without permission, slipping like a new machine.

        Smoothly, Caneo’s limbs move, and he turns to blink again at the flower, that pretty flower, nestled in the braids of her pretty tail. Yes; it suits her, though she is warmer than the man of light in all the ways that count. “Did the burning man give you that flower?” he asks. “It looks very nice.” His narrow face turns to meet her eyes again; something liquid and confusing move within them, something he keens toward like a moth beating around a candle’s flame, terrified of burning and yet unable to fly away.