Whitebark Stream displaced

The sun was setting, but he couldn't tell which direction it was supposed to set in. The light was slanting and purple like a bruise off one of his shoulders—but off the other, it was bituminous, as if the night had already come, with the fell light of the burning mountain roaring with life.

That, he parroted—mindlessly, it would seem—and then the wolf looked to the long, thin face of the stranger again, and for a moment recognition flooded through his gaze, precious memory. The feeling of frigidity all around him, a flash of white-blue beneath his paws; he looks down as the furrow melts from his face, he's looking at the ashen earth and seeing endless ice.

Something beyond the pair rumbles; the earth doesn't quite shake like before, but something crashes upon the mountain and a fresh flare of molten fire cuts through the vantablack cloud, and the silver wolf tenses, stares up at that. He had been remembering the ice caves within which he'd been stuck as a boy, but with the continued eruption, the tumult, the fire—it is gone from his mind.

Two suns? The man offers, his voice an emotionless drone, and then he looks to the black wolf again, utterly lost. What is real? What is memory? What does it mean when twin suns fall?