Natraj takes his sister's silence as a perfect opportunity to enjoy being admired. Forever friendly and unabashed, the kitsune grinned at the painted mare's praise, stepping forward to press his small face against the mare's offered nose. I like her, he informs the copper girl, his enthusiasm leaping through their bond; it fills her with a greater certainty, helps to still her thundering heart. That's good, the girl replies distractedly, but the fox has already moved on, his interest shifting to the curious owl. He throws himself on the ground before it (and, remarkably, the owl is smaller than him, a rare find for the minute fox), tails waving and chest pressed low, a friendly approach, an offer to play.
The girl does not understand his constant desire - and, even more, ability - to make friends. Envy stings her for a moment, followed by the usual dismissal: It's a companion thing. It's not just me.
Please.
She raises her head, tousled mane falling across her face and momentarily obscuring her eyes. The girl shakes to dislodge the braid, nearly missing her companion's response. Yet when she hears it the response is obvious, even audible, because the Fire Dancer chokes, her breath catching in her throat as surprise spreads vibrantly across her face. Four years?! And she says the names, the ones that twist like a knife and warm her heart. But that means- that means-
The girl is speechless, because four years ago she had been here, too, dancing and carefree, she and her brother little more than a flicker and shadow beneath the trees and yet... and yet...
"But I don't remember you," she whispers, and there is something of an accusation in her voice, not for the mare but for herself, for her memory, for the broken promise that if there was anything she had once known, she would know it again, now, once it stood before her. That every stone might hold a piece of her beneath its weight- but of course this is not the case, it was never going to be the case, and now the girl is left lost, uncertain, holding the threads of her past and trying to will them into a tapestry- but the picture is littered with holes.
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