together we can burn so bright,
The sound of an approaching stranger sparks an instinctive reaction; her ears snap back against her head and her muscles tense before she even has time to think. She forces her eyes open an instant later and lifts her head to look at the stranger, but by now the gentle tone of the nicker has belatedly registered in her brain, and her ears slowly unpin. Something about the black tobiano's appearance is also reassuring--for some reason, this is not what she expects a threat to look like. She tries for a moment to remember why, because that doesn't seem very rational, but draws a blank.

The first of the painted mare's words have slipped past her attention. She blinks hard, trying to grasp at the threads of what is being said. The stranger offers soft, comforting words, and a shiver runs down the varnish roan's spine--not just from cold this time. "I-" Her voice cracks. She clears her throat and draws breath to try again, only to realize she has no idea what to say. Yes, it has been a rough night. But what else? What happened--? Once again, she draws a blank. Her white-streaked tail snaps as she searches for an answer in vain.

It occurs to her, belatedly, that the tobiano has offered warmth, and she eagerly settles on a "thank you" as she pushes herself to her feet and edges closer until they are nearly touching. The heat radiating from the other mare is such a shocking contrast from the harshness of this wintry land that her legs suddenly go weak, and she leans toward it before even realizing it.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to get you wet." She should know firsthand how awful it is to be wet in this weather, but she cannot bring herself to move away from the warmth, the only source of comfort she has found. Instead, she desperately casts her mind back, hoping she can at least appease this kind mare with an answer to her questions.

She is rewarded with nothing but a sudden vivid memory of blue eyes surrounded by cream fur, their color pure as a clear mountain lake. That is enough to make her flinch away for a moment, before the craving for warmth draws her closer to the painted mare again. "I'm sorry," she repeats, a hint of desperation weaving into her high-pitched voice. She swallows, praying for the pitch to return to normal. "I don't know. I can't- I can't remember."

that we'll chase the shadows from the world