She had dreamt a different dream last night. One of flowers, bird song, warmth. It had felt good to remember a time of happiness, a time of peace (though it may have long ago) but Epithet remembers when white light prevailed. When Beqannaians had chosen love, family, contentment over the desire for power and greed.

Control leaves a coppery, bloody taste on the tongue, staining throat and mind.

The pale mare wakes from her place beneath the fir trees tucked into the bed of needles. Blue eyes blink away the sleep, the faltering edges of her lips smoothing out like a church dress on Sunday. Not a stitch out of place, not a wrinkle.

The mare finds she enjoys her new body. The ache of old age is firmly diminished (though magic had kept her in good working condition). She appears youthful, pretty. Dark stocking legs stretch before heaving her up and out of her small shelter. The forest hides her away beneath dropping conifer limbs as she nears a small stream to drink in the cold, cold water. A chill ripples through her body but she shakes it off. It felt good to feel something again, even if it hurt.

Epi takes her fill, finishing with a small dribble down her chin as her deep set blue eyes look to the thinly covered landscape. It would snow more later in the day...the air tasted of it.