The world thrums with the soft song of magic, and the girl and her brother follow like children drawn by a treacherous flute. Firechild sees the sprinkling snow, hears the tinkle of silver bells, and wonders if she is dreaming, for this is a memory: a memory of years past, happier years, when her eyes still lit with wonder and her heart still burned with love.

Still she walks on spindly legs, drawn by the path of music and light. Warmth bubbles beguilingly at the bottom of her belly, and for once she allows the happiness to bloom, a tantalizing memory of the life she's left behind. Her brother is draped across her back, content to bask in this temporary reprieve from the usual numbness his sister feels. He watches the world as they pass it by, inquisitive eyes quick to take in changing scenery and magical touches. The light glances off his acorn oak leaf mark; he wears it with pride, especially today, for he knows who they are going to see. They have seen him before.

The Turtle.

Iron hooves leave soft marks as the girl steps hesitantly upon the awaiting bridge. Already there are others, many, mostly unknown, and the smell and sound of them is enough to fill her with hesitation; what if this is more than just an errant dream? Fire Dancer falters, her mind growing cold: if this is more than a memory will she be stripped bare, left with nothing as she deserves, the cast off shadow of a mare who was once strong? The fire in her flutters, stirred by a heavy breeze of doubt. Part of her soul yearns to be close, to belong, but the rest of her remembers it is a futile dream. She has lost the sensation of closeness and love; all she can hope for now is an absence of rejection.

For a second she considers turning away, leaving this memory and all the happiness it taunts her with, returning to her solitude and the safety of herself; but the mournful cries of her brother stops her, pulls her heartstrings just enough that she hesitates, recants. Natraj now stands astride her, a soft and pleading whine coming from his lips; Please, he begs her through quiet desperation, Please, Tavi, I want this. And perhaps it is the strength of his cry, or the magic of this place - or, perhaps, it is her own unconfessed desire, her own secret yearning to see if she cannot, just maybe, recapture the beauty of her memory here - but the girl sighs, and steps onto the bridge, and the boy releases a breath he did not know he held.

Together they make their way to the crowd, silently scanning for familiar faces, not sure what they'll do should any be found. Natraj wants to greet them; the girl wishes to hide; but both copper child and her ebony kin begin to relax as the dream unfolds, memories blooming into beauty beneath the light of the Christmas tree.