The thief's body tears through the wood, galloping as if away from some unseen threat. Manhattan flies behind him, kicking up clods of cold, packed dirt that runs along Zekiah's hoofprints in the frost. The scent of snow hangs high in the air above, just out of reach but still teasing them with the days of Frostfall yet to come. As the body of the smoky black nonius comes to an abrupt halt, Manhattan lets out a chorus of barks and song. Today, this early and uncharacteristically bright morning, they are happy.

If asked why, Knox knows that he would answer in Zekiah's deeper, slippery tones that he is unsure. He cannot find a clear reason for his joy, cannot find in the mist of his mind a motive or understanding of the uncharacteristic smile that crosses his most-often tight, scowling or concerned features. But that fear, that worry, and that doubt, have all left him. He stands, his body lashed by the cold Orangemoon wind and his chest heaving with the memory of the effort of the run, happy for the first time in such a very long time.

And perhaps it is that her master's joy is infectious, but Manhattan, too, shares the sense of elation. She dances and bows at his feet, her tail wagging viciously to strike her hindquarters and Zekiah's slender legs as she weaves in and out of his shadow. Her barks, edged by a higher, gleeful note, send what would usually be their prey far into the recesses of the forest. Today the pair have no interest in the hunt; today, the hunter retires and shares his mind instead with the memory of two twin colts playing together in their own cold and distant winter.

His breath catches in the air, condensing and leaving a trail of white leading off from his scarred features. Manhattan brushes against Zekiah's blindside once more before laying beside him and panting with excited exhaustion. In his mind, locked in his knowledge of his ancestor's past, Knox can feel the strike of snow against Zekiah and Zsoka's thin legs. In the darkness of a blind eye, he sees their shadows cross in the twilight.

He sees, in his mind, through memories that are not truly his own, Zsoka's bloody body trembling and falling, torn to pieces, staining the white earth a cruel crimson. He watches the bridle slide from Zsoka's thin face, and a young Zekiah follow its path to the earth. Tragedy replays itself once more in the eye of the mind. In an instant, everything fades to sorrow.

—

[MESOX]

The thief's short and cropped mane brushes forward against his black ears, moved by the morning wind. He is slowly returned to reality and released from his anguish, but the memory has not been thought of without consequence. The infectious mood has left him, allowing itself to be replaced by one of utter sorrow. He exhales, watching as the heat of his breath turns white in the cold air, and feels the splotched bridle tighten across his roman nose.

Occupying the body of a sinner, Knox lets his own mind roam free. He bathes in the emotional response of his ancestor, feeling the powerful sensation and trying to rid it of its foreignness. He must learn to feel, he tells himself, as Aylin had told him to do. If he must learn from his ancestors, so be it. Until he can find his own heart, he must seek knowledge from those of others.

A stirring from Zekiah's blindside catches Knox's attention, and the smoky black swivels his ears to catch the sound of the stranger. Part of the young stallion wishes to hear what the other has to say before he turns to look. This cold morning, that is the part he will follow. As the other's words play across the cold air, Knox is struck with the strangely familiar tone of them. The voice is familiar, if not carrying with it an echo that accompanies age. And it is strange, too, that this stranger can name him. So strange, Knox thinks, that they surely must not be strangers after all.

And so when Knox turns the convex features of the older thief so that with one, unblinded eye he might catch sight of the source of the sound, he is almost not surprised. At his side, Manhattan stiffens with suspicion, but the joy that rises within her bonded's heart is enough to keep her hackles flat.

For it is indeed an old friend standing before them. Foolishly, emotionally, Knox strides quickly from his place and closer to the tribrid he had met so many seasons ago. He seems now at home in these lands, and Knox realizes that he must be a fellow herd-mate; what an odd coincidence that they would both find themselves among the ranks of the Grey.

"Mesec!" He calls out with abandon, the word sounding mawkish as it falls from the smoky black's stern and scarred lips. He ceases mere feet away from the winged moon-son, a look of cheer bright in his eyes. Zekiah's cropped tail flicks from side to side, striking his gaskins and expressing the impatience he has with the younger and more reckless soul occupying his figure, but he remains silent. "It is good to see you," Knox adds with a festal tune that sounds strange in the voice of Zekiah's usually mendacious brogue. Manhattan lifts herself and trails behind, dragging her paws and suddenly void of the joy she once carried. She is suspicious of the child, but for her master's sake will remain calm. For her master's sake, she would do anything.

"Of course I remember you," Knox goes on, letting his body shift and fall back to his own as he speaks. The tone of his voice rises, betraying his adolescence, and the bridle which clung so tightly to Zekiah's aquiline features loosens as it lightens to its usual, chalky white. "It's a pleasant surprise to find you here among The Grey, I had begun to think I'd not see you again," the hunter remarks, shaking his suddenly longer mane from where it rests atop his keener, younger eyes. He regards Mesec with congeniality in his bright blue eyes, turning to Manhattan only briefly as he hopes to lift her spirits.

No talk of the moon today, Manhattan, he assures her.

And he intends to keep his promise. Lying is one of the things he has sworn never to do to Manhattan. She is older now, able to care for herself, and yet she remains at his side. He owes her more than honesty, but when it is all he can give, he will do so gladly. Begrudgingly she accepts his promise; reluctantly she walks closer to Mesec, offering her affection in the form of an easy brush against his longer and more slender legs. Mentally, the hunter thanks her. Even in the face of this darkness, she truly is his light.

—