She is caught between her cousin and her brother, trapped in the warmth of their embrace, but for once she does not try to drift away. Fire Dancer is content to let calm wash over her, to bathe in the happiness of strangers and the touch of her cousin; she watches the ongoing excitement with distant eyes, but there is some warmth there, some softness which was not present before. The liveliness of the environment touches something deep within her soul; the shadow of a smile floats eerily over lips so deeply scarred, these days, by pain.

Still, being close is a foreign thing to the girl. Eventually the touch of her family grows stifling, and Fire Dancer gently dislodges herself, carefully, kindly, willing her loved ones to know it is not them. She leaves her brother in her cousin's care, a silent sentinel at her side, and glides through the gathering like smoke upon water, collecting no greetings and leaving no mark but the lightest of hoofprints in the unnatural snow. Her eyes drift restless over the assembled crowd, dim embers of recognition gleaming, at times, in their depths, but fire never blooming behind the onyx haze. She exists, it seems, in a different sphere; on a plane outside and above the rest of the world; in a bubble of distance, where she can be safe.

She thinks she sees a glimmer of moonlight, but when she looks again it is only the snow.

Unnoticed, unacknowledged, she makes her way through the bodies as silently as a summer breeze, floating aimless until she finds herself alone upon the outskirts, staring across an empty field and wondering who would look for her, were she to simply wander away. Slender frame shivers in the orangemoon chill, fraying braids dancing in the fingers of the wind. A zephyr rises around her, strong enough to sting; the girl is narrow as a kite. Around her the world begins to shift, to glitter, to fade from reality and become something soft, something wholesome, something strange. It is beautiful, this reality seen out of her periphery, beautiful and dangerous and merciless and dark. It is the night she has always feared, the night she now calls out to steal away Were she to stand here long enough, could she simply disappear? Would the wind take her far over the sea, scatter her across the world like the ashes of a Viking's ship? If she waits, will she be free from the agony of this mortal coil?

Or will she trapped, condemned forever to live on in someone's mind, someone's memory?

She has thought about it often, this concept of longevity, the idea of immortality brought on solely by the regard of others. Perhaps it is why she cannot die, why she has always returned- because the image of her lives here forever, held by some misplaced affection in the hearts of an unhappy few who are just enough. Though Natraj is not within her sight, the girl always feels him searing in her heart; and now Amaris lives there, too, as much a shadow as the vulpine brother, and Fire Dancer knows she cannot leave, so long as they are there to follow.

Heavily, angrily, the girl sighs, and a rush of embers surge from her throat, illuminating the wrath painted on a moon-cut face. The world once more grows vapid and dim, and the girl wants to scream- would scream, were in not for another voice rising first, a cry so distant and familiar that Fire Dancer can only freeze, black eyes wide and hair raised high -

TANDAVI!

- and she feels a flickering, frightening flare of familiarity, a fearsome uncertainty and desperate desire, confusion, yearning, anger, regret -

Slowly the Fire Dancer turns, copper neck leading waif-like body in a graceful pivot until he is fully within her sights

(you called me a firefly)

and he's older, bolder, more than she remembers him to be, with his voice like silver and his daring eyes of blue

(you made me your friend)

but still fragile, still that same puzzle she once wanted to solve. Does she remember the pieces, how unevenly they fit? Starlit skies and desert stories, he spoke of his grandfather and didn't share his loneliness out loud, but somehow she knew.

(I thought I could save you) 

Does she remember the way she laughed with him, once, laughed because it felt so good, because she was young and happy and he helped her feel alive?

(you left...)

"Chandrakant," the girl whispers, and there is a crack in the darkness of her voice, hope behind the furrow of her eyes. Silently she stares, soaking him in, reassuring herself that she is real, wishing that he were not.

It is easier to regret a memory, than to dare yourself to love the flesh and blood that make a face.

(I don't want to be alone anymore)

At last her black lips part again, and now there is the barest hint of a smile behind the dullness of her pain, the palest memory of something brighter, something of the Fire Dancer the girl used to be. "You look like the moon." She watches him through black eyes dulled by hardship, watching his face for some hint of that gentle boy she used to know, and some hope of that vibrant girl she used to be.

Because if that's how he remembers her, then maybe it means that girl is still alive. And maybe they'll be able to find her.

Maybe it's a good thing she didn't blow away, after all.

"talk talk"