Shadows moved on the slope, but he was not watching anymore, his gaze turned aside in denial of what he had witnessed. Fire. It made his gut clench and turn, a sour taste in his mouth, a bitter ring to each beat of his heart. Soot and sulfur. Ash swirling upon the dry, lifeless winds, a mockery of the fog which had hung between the trees. Black-rimmed ears pressed against his thick neck for a moment and he closed his eyes, trying to wrench the memories from his focus, but they refused to leave. The Sun God, in all his wrathful glory, the pillar of fire, Keahi — he had walked in that inferno, wept as bark blackened and branches fell from the sky like rain.

A muffled sound and a scent upon the wind made his head snap around and eyes open in the darkness, two pools of silver set by black and white. He had not wanted to look up at the Edge and the flickers of orange, but now he did again, frowning in the dim light as he tried to pick out the source of the movement. Vaguely he knew her scent, and when she stepped out of the Edge's shadow, he knew that he knew her. Somewhere, somehow, and as she approached his mind looped back through his memories. World's Edge. Ashes, drought. Dragons. But she came alone now, didn't she? He saw nothing upon her body, and Irma saw nothing in the sky where she soared lightly. Windtossed Foothills. Clear not anymore. Smoke. Smoke the Wild Rose.

"Mauja."
"Smoke."

He wasn't sure what he thought of this — he had not meant to meet anyone, least of all one of those who lived in his home now. One who kept fires burning. Gracefully he turned aside again, blocking the flickers of light from his vision, to instead look out across the lavender sea bathed in silver. "Indeed it has," he agreed quietly, solemn and sincere on the surface, hollow beneath. He hadn't expected anyone to come, but why wouldn't they? Why shouldn't they investigate when the enemy stood upon their doorstep, watching with sad eyes? Granted, they were masked now, capped by that impenetrable layer of ice, the soft gleam which seemed to suggest so many things at once and yet said nothing.

Deep down, he knew that he didn't want her to be here. He didn't want anyone to be there with him. He never wanted anyone to be around him; he always wanted to retreat, pull away, and be left alone, but he was a slave to a memory, of who he had been. Mauja did not abruptly walk away, or be anything less than polite and interested. "How have you been?" It was a foolish question, but the only one he could think of at the moment. He owed her something at least, for not having judged him like all others did; she had trespassed, but she had not come with accusations and made-up theories. She had come to learn, to apologize, and to ask how she had fared was the least he could do.

He couldn't even remember if she'd fought in the war or not.