In the cover of night, Solgar finally sleeps with the knowledge that his home and his herd are safe. It's still chilly, however, for the days are still short and the same mounds of muddy snow that he had seen when he first moved in are still in exactly the same place, unmoved by the lingering grip of a long subarctic winter, so the stallion's sleep is fitful; occasionally he stirs and shivers while his mind, half-awake, fights against the crispness of reality.

But Solgar is tough. Otherwise he may have summoned one of the girls to keep him warm tonight.

When he does manage to slip into a complete and dark unconsciouness, there are no dreams to enflame his mind. Some may dream of what they've done that day, or of their hopes, dreams, or family dramas, their fallings-out and death-defying experiences, but Solgar dreams of nothing. His whole life has been more or less completely uneventful. A waste of time, he sometimes calls it. If life is nothing but a collection of separate moments, then his has been one long moment. He has nothing to dream of.

What does eventually break his blissful black slumber is the voice of the eagle shattering the night sky like a shrill whistle. The Watcher, he thinks immediately as his dark eyes snap open. He remains still, however, knowing there is no need to rouse himself completely. He is used to this bird's presence, even in the dead of night. He is about to let his eyelids droop back into resting position when, through the shadows of the trees beneath which he shelters, he catches movement.

It's a mare, but it is not Vanille, or Ferrari, or Winter. Her coat, at least from what he can make out in the half-light of the moon, is roaned like his, and she stands some twenty or thirty paces away at the edge of the forest, her head tilted upwards as she watches something in the sky. The shock at seeing a stranger so suddenly in the middle of the night keeps him rooted in place for some time. But then, as ever, he gives in to the pull of duty and saunters sleepily through the woods, his hooves lightly stirring the soft bed of pine needles.

"Who are you?" he demands when he's close enough, his rough, low voice giving clear indication that he's in no pleasant mood. The moonlight, falling through the branches of the trees, illuminates his scarred body as his breath escapes in warm, heady clouds of condensation.