She imagines a world where she is whole; where her cousin's sorrow breaks against her and is absorbed rather than reflected, where the warmth of her embers is torrid enough to burn through flesh and restore the soul. Amaris' tears fall like so much rain, bleeding into the Fire Dancer's coat and staining it, saturating it in sorrowful black; she wishes she could take it all, could bathe in the blackness if only it meant the dragonmare's heart would ring joyful once more. She wishes she were strong enough to stand beneath the onslaught of the world and not falter, not bend, not fracture and burst into a million pieces, scattered and glittering on the forest floor.

But she is not strong enough. She cracks, and shudders, and finally breaks.

It's the voice that gets her, the half-sobbed apology which spits fire into her heart, sets her trembling with unquenchable- what? Anger, agony, resentful remorse; she quivers beneath her cousin's embrace, taut as a bowstring, tense as a wire. Her brother whines pleadingly, sensing the rising tide of her woe, the black blight of agony which coats her inside and sticks to her throat, making her breaths come ragged and her heartbeat hitch. He knows she has heard what she does not want, for sorry is a useless word; sorry fixes nothing, sorry moves no mountains. I'm sorry is selfish, a shifting of blame; and copper child already blames herself. Amaris is sorry; that should be enough; but it won't be, can't be without an echoing action, and she has already seen the actions of her loved ones fall short.

She clenches her eyes, anger bright on her moon-slashed face, but does not draw away. Her trembling may well be the spasms of a sob; how is Amaris to see, to know? No, Tandavi does not pull herself physically back, but the moment of intimacy, of trust, is gone. There is distance between them now, miles of it, all the years and all the sorrow a wall the copper child hides behind. She retreats back to it now, propelled by the sorry, by the unspoken follow up: forgive me. Because she does not know if she can.

(I will follow you hits the wall like a wave, forcing through the cracks and flowing over her again- and she sobs again, aloud this time, though for what she does not know)

The smell of magic fills the air, white and hot as light on the snow; black eyes open and the girl sniffs, raising her head to find its source, gold face awash with a fresh sort of pain. "Fajira," she whispers, and her dark voice cracks, because she feels it, feels her, a gift (a curse) from the cousin who still stands by her side. Fire Dancer gasps at the weight of her soul, the brightness and clarity brought on by the dragon; it swells within her breast into something almost calm. Tears fall freely down her gold-kissed face, tears for something beautiful and sad. Beside her Natraj howls a bittersweet tune; it echoes on the water and rebounds back, a symphony of foxes taking up the note.