Kahelo.

My heart shivers when I hear her speak my name. Kahelo. The only name I've been given by someone who gives a damn about whether I live or die. And now she is here to protect me, to offer her side for me to stand by.

There's a soft fire, a gentle tugging wind, that plays upon my heart when I realize that she cares for me. Aquila, the mare with the teeth of the same crocodile that numbed my heart and brought me pain, is here when my parents are not. She watches over me when my herd lets me slip through the cracks and wander out into the wilderness. As long as she is alive, I am not alone.

And there's only so much I can do to contain that emotion, that sudden flush of something that I want to call love but know that I can't because I can't love. That was taken from me, that was twisted away with a heartless wrench and now I'm left empty, aren't I? I'm here staring dead-eyed at a monster made of beast and bone, and when he offers me a prize of my own I don't even feel pity for whatever vague creature he describes—wants me to describe.

No, I will not do this for him. I will not do this, not even for her. I have a voice, I know I do, and it belongs to me. It must stay locked within, pushed down underneath that beating heart I so vainly have endeavored to control. When the vines dangle the bones I at first look away, as if to refuse them.

But there's something in that pointing. There's something in that hum, so like the one that my father uttered to sing his companion to her sweet, unending death. And I know, wordless or not, I must at least try to understand.

Having never seen a hand in my life the bones are undeniably foreign; I can connect them to nothing other than those of the rats Manhattan would eat and shred before me. But these are not throwaways or chew toys, these bones are pregnant with power. My golden eyes narrow and I stand firm—firm beside Aquila, as commanded. She, at least, I respect.

But there still must be some rebellion, some hate of this process. When the white winged mare, a later comer than I, begins to detail her speech I am struck by the passion. Is this the depth of sorrow the creature hopes to impart? Is that why I am given the bones that hum, the bones that bring up only memories of Manhattan?

The white mare goes on, the details she offers are cruel and twisted ones. But they are hers, and from the pain in her eyes I fear that she has guessed all too correctly. By the time her voice fades into nothing but an echo, I have turned back to look at my own "gift." This creature's "friend."

Whatever it was once, a sacrifice it will be now. Merciless, I grab ahold of the bones as Manhattan would—grip them firm between my teeth. I cannot go to the grieving mare, cannot offer her comfort, but I can offer her this. I shake my head a firm no at the creature, for I will not speak when it commands, and give the bones one last tug in an effort to pull them from the vine.

The bones are rigged free, and once on the ground they crack apart. I lift one youthful hoof and slam it down on that cursedly pointed finger, crushing it beneath what little force I have collected on my time on earth.

I stand shaking and seek out the game-master's skull; I can't even call it a face. The sole form of expression held within the bones is shattered and erased: made a sacrifice for the magic I might gain, the pain this mare has felt, and the wickedness of this game. If that does not tell him of these bones within my limitation of silence, I do not know what does.

I have never before felt so brave.