Young murderer suddenly becomes aware of the fact that he is not alone. The faint rustle of sand hit by hooves wakes him from his living nightmare, and the magic that soothed him snaps away in the sharpest, most painful of moments. Manhattan rises swiftly and he sees her figure like a shadow cast against the distant, dangerous sky. She is strong, he realizes. She is not as young as she once was, not as cowardly. The magic that once haunted her has learned to bend to her will, and he sees that confidence in her clear-blue gaze now as she watches the strangers with care. Knox himself turns to look at them, but does not rise.

Perhaps the satisfaction of the meat sitting low in his stomach is what keeps him at rest; perhaps it is simple a lack of care for formality. Whatever the reason, he is not focused on appearing a gentleman. No, for something about the mare haunts him. It is not her beauty or apparent grace as she steps across the sand, nor is it the almost wistful look in her eyes. It is the sense that he has met her before; the sense that he knows her, and that he owes her something very important.

But he knows it cannot be true, for he does not know her face. Only the trace of her scent as it is carried off by a sea wind is familiar, and even that memory is fading. The fact that she may have been the mare to aid him in the wake of his fall does not occur to him; perhaps it is the remaining sun that fools him, but for a moment or so his mind is addled.

He can't think of what to say, and he isn't quite sure why. He simply lays still, the water rushing over his feathered fetlocks and teasing the skin of his cannons no longer something he takes note of. Manhattan walks forward and away from him, surprisingly comfortable with the new mare. Odd that she trusts the white one- it is odd if she ever trusts anyone.

"Manhattan seems to like you," he says smoothly, his deep voice spreading across the distance between them as the wave spread across the sand. Slowly he stands, shaking off the sand and letting the cold water drip below his knees. In silence he follows his companion's path, bending his head to brush his velvet nose affectionately across her back. Still she does not take her eyes off of the mare- she is enraptured. Completely trusting of the stranger, yet apparently troubled by her appearance here. There is something beyond it all that Knox can not comprehend, and as much as he tries to understand, the broken bond prevents him from doing so. But he trusts Manhattan, and for some reason the lingering sensation in the back of his mind which is reminiscent of the voices from his childhood. The voices of the old ones- the voices he fears will return each day.

He shudders in faint fear, but with a flick of his tail and a backwards look plays it off as a shiver in reaction to the sea wind. A few more graceful steps carry him closer to the mare; his grey-blue eyes seem to brighten with a curiosity and a sensation of closeness. He cannot help himself- without thinking he reaches out a velvet nose, as if to touch her. He hovers there beside her neck, close enough for her to feel his breath upon it, close enough for him to take in her scent. He knows it; he must know it. But though Manhattan may nudge him tenderly in reminder, he cannot see her thoughts, and he cannot know the mare's identity.

With a heavy sigh he stops himself from reaching for her further. He wants to feel the warmth of her, wants to know if that will be familiar as well, but knows his place. "..I'm sorry. I just... I feel as though I know you." He explains this to her as best as he can while he looks into her dual-toned eyes. They are close now, closer than he had realized he had come. There is a silence, brief and awkward. There is a nervous glance to the silver dragon, and a desire to both run far and fast and to stand beside her so that they might touch. He suppresses them, tries to forget they are there. But forgetting is a funny thing; forgetting is beyond one's own control. "I am Knox," he says carefully, as if explaining to someone that he would not expect to understand, but wants to teach with complete earnestness. There is silence followed by the sound of a wave as it crashes to the shore; he feels less empty than before. So does the world.

Young murderer feels foolish. He cannot know her, she cannot be who he thought. Would she not recognize him as well- ask how he has been, wonder upon his blindness, call him by his name? This mare, Ophelia, she calls herself, does not know him, and neither can he know her.

Her head jerks back and his does the same. Foolish of him to think it his place to draw even as close as he had. Many are sensitive, few as tactile as he. He relies on touch like a child groping for its toy, even with his sight. The sense of feel is his most valuable- the same sense that leaves his skin hot and crawling after the kill. And the scent of it all- the acrid stench of blood countered by the mare's saccharine odor. It is overwhelming and has lead him to forget. He steps backwards with care, toes dancing upon the sand with practiced grace as he edges respectfully away. She speaks to Manhattan kindly and he cannot help but let the dour downturn of his lips shift.

His body lowers and aches to be near his bonded in this time of separation. Teeth grind and a low whinny forms from his tongue, rolling out into the open and calling her back. She returns, but reluctantly. She has taken to the unfamiliar mare, and watches the silver dragon with perked ears and a curious expression. Knox listens with care, considering her words and treating them like gentle, dying things in the night. Has she forgotten then? Still, the chances of her being the one and the same... Manhattan is simply being friendly.

And strangely enough, so is he. "Chances are you two were once bonded," the old colt proffers wisely, lifting his head and nickering towards Tinek. Perhaps the dragon is as friendly as she says; it would be strange to feel the touch of scales for the first time against his blood-marked, dappled skin; new and exciting to experience the famed gentle ways of the dragon. But he cannot allow himself too fall to deep into distraction; her question to him remains. Has he forgotten? Perhaps some, yes; but not all. "For a time, the Goddess of the Moon took from me my sight. I met a mare who led me to safety and shelter; to a place where I could heal. I thought you may have been she, but it seems neither of us are in the position to say for sure if we might know each other," he says, speaking slightly more than usual- feeling more at ease than usual.

The scent of blood on his flesh has begun to fade; the image of the dead haunting him is leaving. "Though... I don't think it matters," Knox says then. He is different now than he was before. Darker, perhaps, but she seems to be the same. They are all changing, at all times. Manhattan, leaning on hind legs and striking up at the air as she squats in a mock-hunters stance, barking playfully at the dragon, is still the apple of his eye, even without her emotions occupying his cold heart. "Whatever faint memories may remain, perhaps we should simply start anew," the dark young thing says as he looks on and out, over the ocean. His eyes mirror its blue, and as he turns to her they carry with him a strange, twisted sort of hope. Strange that a murderer, one so intimate with death and his part to play, can feel such hope after so long a time lived in darkness.