The thinnest flicker of a golden ear; the lightest twitch of a dusted flank; these are the only promises of response, the only indicators that she hears them come, their feet pressing soft echoes against the enclosed sky. The fox is quick to turn around, large ears wiggling with pleasure and recognition at the site of Lena- and Imogen. The vixen, particularly, fills his eyes: Natraj bounds toward her on minuscule feet, fire dancing from all three tails. He does not mind that he is small, that she is grander; he dances toward her and draws to a stop, a toothy grin on his vulpine face.

Copper child remains unmoved, endless eyes glued on the gaping space. She recognizes the voice, of course; she sees the mare through her brother's eyes and recognizes them from that darkest night. Indeed, her mind is alight with memories: darkness reaching out cruel fingers to wrap around her throat. A monster striking through their safety, destroying the shelter they have built. Running, fleeing from the last thing she knows. Separation, isolation, hurt and despair. The girl shudders, a terse vibration trickling down her spine, but it is not with displeasure at seeing Lena.

The Fire Dancer owes the Songbird her life.

"Have I?" Alto voice leaves her lips in a murmur, the question genuine, the doubt sincere. She ought to turn around, she knows, to smile brightly at the mahogany mare, greet her with warmth and gratitude. Yet still the child looks ahead, her heart an unsteady beat in her throat. If she turns around, Lena becomes real, a thing of flesh and bone and emotion, fragile and beautiful and undeserving of this, this feeling that fills the copper child, the sudden overwhelming need to know, to question, to remember when she was good. Fire Dancer rarely speaks of her past, of the ghosts that follow in her steps. Flesh and blood - and she thinks of starlight, of a boy who rejected her strained confession - are strangers too her, something the girl struggles to touch, but ghosts...

Ghosts live and walk beside the girl. They are her constant company, the only ones who care to hear, to listen to her struggles, to counsel her in her grief.

If she does not look at Lena then the mare remains a ghost, and perhaps - perhaps - she will continue to care.

"I'm afraid of the dark," the girl confesses. "And I'm afraid of the light, of how I fade in it. I'm afraid to be alone, and I'm afraid to love, because everyone I love goes away. I'm afraid that it's my fault. I'm afraid that I cannot be good enough, or be strong enough, or be brave enough." Her brother looks sadly at the girl - Brave enough for who? - but the copper child does not turn back. Tears bite, and she closes her eyes.

"I'm afraid to hurt people, but I can't seem to stop. And I'm afraid of being hurt. I wanted to make the world a better place, but I'm afraid I never will. I just seem to make it all worse."

Guilt claws at the girl's chest, and relief, too- they merge with the doubt, the hurt, the hope, until she feels nothing at all, nothing but a casual curiosity as to what the mare will do. Lena saved her from herself once; is it too much to ask her to do it again?