After taking a few moments to bask in the sounds, sensations, and smells of his former kingdom, Het Vuur began to feel the stiffness of his wet hide starting to freeze in the frigid air. In his gleeful stupor, he had almost forgotten to shake the remnants of the ocean from his body. Dipping his head forward, the stallion slipped into a quick, deliberate tremor that rid him of the worst of the wetness, though afterward he could still feel saltwater harmlessly crystalizing on some of the more delicate areas of his body. Rather than irritate him, it made him feel like an ice creature: like Tinuvel was reclaiming him as its kin.

"We are home," Sterre said, and he felt her soft, cold nose touch the frozen hairs of his cheek. He returned the gesture, pressing the side of his snout against her own and lipping softly at the curve of her jawline. There was no need to add to her statement; their joyful relief at having successfully made it to Tinuvel was thick in the air, and as palpable as the scent of snow.

Snow.

While he knew that winter and snow came hand-in-hand on Tinuvel - and though he had experienced it plenty in his time away - to him, there would never quite be anything like Tinuvelian snow. And without the sight to marvel at its pristine, sparkling crust, sound was the next best thing: apart from, of course, touch. With a deep nicker, Het Vuur flicked his tail and lurched forward until the firmness of the damp sand melted away into the powdery crispness of snow. Its crunch beneath his feet was like music to his ears, and very quickly he found himself frolicking like a horse eighteen years younger, unable to stifle his childlike elation. While he did not quite have the strength to heave his great bulk upward in repetitive bucks and kicks, after steadying his trembling knees he managed to drop onto his back and give a merry, leg-flailing roll.

When he had stood and shaken off his white cloak, Het Vuur became still and quiet. His whiskered chin pointed inland and his eyes carved a trail across the landscape, as if through sheer will he could make himself see it. At the very least, the brightness of the snow had lifted the darkness of his vision into a pale grey smear, and if he squinted he thought he could make out of the shape of the land. But that was it. He might have been home, but he would never be able to see it again.

Like a bird knocked from the sky with a stone, his joy fell into an abyss deep inside him and, in its place, he began to feel a cold anger that burned like frostbite.