Aletheia, too, is new to this world. Although not in the usual sense. Usually, horses are new to this world by virtue of having been recently born. Aletheia, on the other hand, was deposited in the meadow with relatively little ceremony, awaking covered in snow and cold. She had scattered memories of a life before, dancing among the stars with others who might have been family, but they slip from her mind like water every day.

She does not know whether she misses them or whether she welcomes the change. She does not know whether she should cling to them like a lifeline, or sweep them out with the rest of the dust.

And so, she does nothing but dedicate herself to her new home. It is one of four things she knows: Librette is her mother, Carnage her father, the Valley her home, and Aletheia, her name. These are her lodestones, her touchstones, the things that she knows with absolute certainty. Everything else about the world is, in her opinion, worthy of some skepticism.

As part of her duty to the Valley, Aletheia has (entirely unknowingly) taken up her mother's role as borderguard. Aletheia had never known her mother, and so has no way of knowing their similarity, but it exists all the same. And so it is that she is the first one to find the stranger girl, so small, drinking from their stream.

For the moment, the girl doesn't seem to spot Aletheia. Theia quickly surmises that the visitor is fairly young; judging age at a glance does not come naturally to her (for example, she herself is far older than her age would indicate) but she's been working on it, and she is finding she excels at anything she works at. The girl is young, too young to be here alone. But she doesn't smell any other horses.

The girl finishes drinking and breaks off at a trot, conveniently heading in the direction of Aletheia. The girl steps forward from the trees, obviously visible but entirely silent. Aletheia is a pretty little thing, appearing about two or three years old. She's mostly grey – a bit early for that at her age, but her coat color is the least of her abnormalities. As she stands, the spring flowers beneath her hooves start to slowly shrink away from her, withering and cringing as though in some kind of horticultural pain. To any other horse this would no doubt be worrisome, but to Aletheia, this is simply another fact that she is learning. Wherever she goes, wherever she touches anything, it seems to start withering. At least it doesn't seem to stop her from getting the nutrients she needs from eating grass.

She looks the girl up and down with a neutral gaze, finally offering a nod – of welcome or of approval is impossible to tell. "Welcome to the Valley." she offers. Her voice is unemotional, neutral, but very pleasant – like the kind of voice that reads an audiobook. " Can I help you?" The tones are simply nothing – neither welcoming nor unwelcoming, neither sweet nor sour.

But the greeting could clearly use some polish. It's better than she'd had before – the girl is learning – but clearly, she gets her social graces from her (legendarily, epically graceless) mother.

The girl almost runs into her, but to look at Aletheia you'd never know it. She simply stands still, trusting that they won't collide, or perhaps not caring if they do. The painted mare is ultimately able to stop before she crashes into Theia, but it's a close question. Aletheia does not so much as raise an eyebrow.

The girl speaks then, introducing herself, and Aletheia listens politely. Even she can tell that the girl is young, little more than a filly, and she wonders how it's come to happen that she is here. Being born outside Beqanna she'd have had quite a trip to get back here. Aletheia wonders absentmindedly if the girl's parents knew that she was here.

Aletheia is about to reply and give her own name, as is only proper, when something entirely unexpected happens: Dimora reaches out and touches her.

Aletheia has not been touched by a horse in all of her time in Beqanna, believe it or not. Perhaps it's her naturally icy demeanor. Perhaps it's her natural reserved and distant personality. But when Dimora puts her nose gently on Aletheia, the grey girl gasps.

It's as though she can feel a small trickle of the girl's energy starting to melt into her. It's an incredibly weird feeling, and she can't help it – she pulls back reflexively.

It's then that she notices the grass where she had been standing: wilted, just like all the grass her hooves touch. She wonders if it's the same kind of thing, and she looks back to Dimora, true concern in her eyes for the first time. She is relieved to see that the girl does not seem as wilted as the plants – perhaps whatever it is she does to plants is diluted on larger things? Or perhaps it's something entirely different? She has absolutely no idea.

"S-sorry." she finally manages after a moment. Her voice sounds uncharacteristically shaken. "I've never had that happen before." her voice slowly returns to its even, neither pleasant nor unpleasant timbre. She declines to mention that she's never been touched before. She hopes the girl decides not to try touching again.

She remembers, then, that the girl had asked something else. Something about a father. "Your father? I don't know of any stallions here right now. What's his name?"

but rises again

Aletheia

harder and stronger

"I-I-" she stammers, unsure of how to explain it, but desperately wishing she could. Her face remains calm, but her icy eyes are concerned. "I'm not sure, but I didn't mean to." her voice is painfully earnest, but it is still unhurried. She does not trip over herself to apologize. "I think…it's simply something that happens with me. I didn't know it would happen with a horse." The words flow more quickly now, her gaze flicking uneasily between Dimora and the ground.

"I've never…been touched by another horse, that I can remember." she admits, her eyes fixed on Dimora. Her voice is detached and curious, as though she is a scientist observing her condition from far away. For most horses, the lack of touch would be seriously troubling, could be the kind of thing that ruins a soul. For Aletheia, it is merely a fact of life, something worth pondering for its scientific merits, but not something that will actively bother her.

Is she strange because she lacks things like touch, or does she lack things like touch because she is so strange she never wanted them?

Undaunted, the grey girl stands her ground. Dimora seems to accept that she means no harm, or at least, accept it enough not to immediately run away. Instead, she tells Aletheia about the father she's come to find. It does not occur to Aletheia that in this they are parallel. Aletheia is here because she is seeking her own roots. Not in the same concrete way that Dimora is; Aletheia knows that if her parents were here, she'd have found them by now. But she also never wanted to find them, or at least, not as such. She was driven by a desire for this place, which was their place. They both are secondary.

"Covet." she tastes the name like a ghost on her lips. "No, I don't know him." She doesn't know much of anyone, but she does not say that. "But he's the one that gave you the orange eyes." she states, with absolute and unshakeable confidence. "I don't think he is knowable, not anymore." she speaks in accidental riddles. "You'll want to talk to Thorrun. Covet was her father too." she pauses then, her voice unhurried. Her tone is flat, neither sympathetic nor callous – simply speaking a truth, or what she suspects is a truth. "I think that he is dead."