His mane glints in the light reflected from her icy countenance, shining with the sun's illumination -- of which he is the origin.
It's a circle of a prism of a spectrum of light, binding his perfection with her being, because she knows what the color of holiness and purity is.
The symmetry and the irony don't escape her.
She should be his polar opposite, but her mind finds lines that tie them together more often than things that pull them apart. Where these connections come from, she doesn't know, but she knows they've always been there and thus, they always will.
(He knows the beginning and knows the now and knows how it will end. She can't bring herself to ask him.)
Before her fall she wasn't the pale bloodless color of snow. Before her fall she was golden and radiant, dancing and glittering in the sun.
She matches him better, now.
When long fingers trailed through thick strands, there was never a fear of death. With a paw on her chest and stone against her back, she still isn't afraid of him.
Because he is life and he is death, and it's taken her this long to see both sides.