[[OOC: internal musings from the same trip as Paper Rocket to Mars.]]

He had told her about being reborn.

He had not told her about what it was like to be there. That the memories that distracted him were so vivid that they pushed to the boundaries of memory and reality.

That while he'd reached out to touch the plaster, he'd been vividly confused which of his senses to believe. The ones that said that the air was dry and smelled like rust and dry earth, or the quieter, enticing one that said it smelled like sweet sun dried hay, crushed grass, and the warm thick animal scent of the bulls and everything that came with them.

That the rough plaster under his fingers when he touched the building had been smoother once, but never slick. That the colors had been almost painfully vibrant, and beautiful.

Under her voice, her curiosity, he'd seen the huge bulls and cows, craning their necks out and lowing for attention, the bulls especially could make a racket, thumping their long horns against the door frames and and posts in a show to see who could draw the greatest amount of attention.

He knew what their fur would feel like, bristly and coarse, with soft warm noses and thick lips that searched your palm for treats, much like a horse, but even more dangerous, and unpredictable when they had a mind to it.

He remembered the woman with the purple eyes, laughing over her shoulder at him as she stepped into the stables, a few steps ahead of Zircon. He was five nine and she was three inches shorter and much lighter than he was, but she boldly wrapped her long bronze arms around the great black bulls head and massive neck, grabbing his soft fringed ears and using them to steer his head as she pressed their faces together laughing.

"Maybe this time Xanthus will actually Jump Asterion instead of rolling over him like a tumbler. What do you think? Will he manage Skiron? Will our Golden Bull catch up?

She laughed and pressed her cheek to Skiron's huge muzzle, and he lipped at her tunic and snorted, his hot breath stirring her black hair.

"Is something wrong?" Zircon said, and he tried to explain it to her. But how did you explain something you didn't know how to approach? How did you tell someone that there were moments like this that felt so real you could still almost touch them? That you could see Black Skiron, could see the woman's face, her slightly crooked nose, and the scar on her ear lobe where an earring had been ripped out, and Asterion, several stalls down, poking his broad red head out and bashing a horn as thick around as Kairatos' wrist against a post for attention.

A thousand or more years ago and it was easier to remember than three years ago. Hard to tell that to anyone. Hard to explain that it was worth the price of admittance.

But it was.