Firefly Glen the grand optimist

Or, perhaps, simply one set of quizzical blues. 

No sooner had he taken to a westerly stride did the skin on his neck prickle, elevating hackles and awareness both. He blinked, stalled, and came to a gradual halt only to swing his broad head around to regard that which bade him pause. Starkly she stood against the backdrop of snowed fields; a practiced stroke of pitch-dark ink, unequivocally refined, and imitiably—

Hydra? 

His breath caught, the steady plumes of condensation cessating as he regarded the distinctly familiar figure. He could not tell at this distance, though his conflicted heart beat fervently as the ashes of his long-held flame stirred with longing anew. It could be any one of them; Lyra, Alya, Hydra. The season drove him from the Frosthawks lest he mistakenly succumb to instinct amongst his family, but it was not so kind as to permit him reprieve from her.

Rian circled back to face the single head of the Cerberus, tail relaxed, but ears pricked with intent. He wouldn't—couldn't—ignore this, even if she took a prize for his meddling to present to the other two heads. Blood, a scar, an ear; for all the hurt he had done, he would have given her anything to appease it.  

When he drew near enough, his traitorous tongue nearly betrayed the unspoken question in his eyes. But Rian held fast to it, and instead offered a mere throaty noise of unbidden delight as his conclusions revealed this was, in fact, his old friend.