She sneaks out at the first ray of morning, when the sky still smells of dusk in the west. North, across sand and through threshold of desecrated earth; north, beyond the edge of the woods and into the meadows, through heath and snow and the trappings of winter. On her right the sun makes its ascent, bursting into glorious light only to be swallowed by the density of clouds; colors paint the rim of the heavens, frail and beautiful yet quick to withdraw. She thinks she can taste them before they disband, that the colors crackle with power and heat before dissipating, withdrawing, melting away to snowflakes and ice.

They make their own heat. Muscles and tendon work to generate warmth, sweat building beneath hair of thick winter hides; boy and his sister run when they can, walking in bursts before regaining their pace. Not hurried, but not languid, they know they cannot delay. They have duty, responsibility, and Hector... well, he has wings. Reaching their destination will be easy for her partner, regardless the presence of ice on the ground. Already they're late, fallen behind the upward-sloping sun; their bodies too small, their lungs too frail, the cold air burns them and spurs the pair on.

At the edge of the meadow they pause, breathing hard, and the boy climbs onto his sister's broad back. Can't run, he announces. Too cold. Don't like. As though to prove his point he wraps tails around the minuscule body, pressing large ears against the ebony skull. His heat is escaping in billows and droves; he loathes the cold, her desert brother, yet refuses to let her patrol on her own, to leave her side for more than a moment after the cruelties they have faced alone. It is minutes before he falls asleep, soothed by the rocking of her lengthy stride.

The Sun has not reached his zenith in the sky; or so she supposes, for the light is unclear, a hazy steel through clouded skies. Copper child and her diminutive brother cross into the Grove and find it iced, a wonderland coated in a sheet of crystal. Frail grass snaps beneath broad hooves, frozen earth shattering in the force of her strides. She stills, blinking away the ice from her lashes, trying to see through the fog of her breath. The world is white, and beautiful and clean; she shivers against it and peers into the dim light, wondering where Hector could be, and who else would be fool enough to venture into this frigid world.

"talk talk"


@[Hector]

Something stirs in the quiet snow, but it is not the bronze behemoth she had thought to expect.

She arcs her neck in the direction of the sound, seeing fire and smelling smoke before a figure looms into view. Black eyes narrow at the silver apparition, recognition slow in the bitter cold. Something about the molten gaze, something about the nose which peered with caution from around the snow-capped trees; sunlight pours into her memory, but little else. At the outside rim of it is a tickling urgency, a crackle of something she cannot quite place.

Grey hooves step toward the barely-seen child, a cautious movement, for she fears she shall send the youth scrambling back into the frigid wild. It seems ill-advised for one so young to be out in such chill; where is her mother, her father, her herd? Something else bites at the edge of her mind; she frowns, and sighs, and pushes a smile onto inky lips.

Something protective stirs in her breast, a need to defend this child from harm, a passionate desire to rescue her from... what? A breath of steam precedes the dark voice- "Hello," she murmurs, taking another step. Frost settles heavy on the whiskers of her nose; she snorts it off, displeased by the cold, frustrated by the failings of her own fragile mind. If only she could get a better view. If only the child would come out from where she hides.

@[Aithniel]

[ this is just gross I'm so sorry ]

There is an agony written across her face, a broken glare in the molten eyes, and the girl wishes she could wash it all away, leave the child with wonder and a smile. Too many youths with their youth embezzled, too many children with their childhoods snatched, thrown to the jaws of an unfair world. Why does this one stick in her mind? Where has she met the little horned firebird with the-

Firebird. Egg!

Natraj makes the connection a second before the child's voice rings out through the grove, shrill and accusing, a stab in their chests. Memories flood through their fuzzy minds, a night of waiting and a day of loss. They'd sworn to protect the child, vowed to defend it; and, oh, how they had failed! The smile falters from her inky lips, falling away into wide-eyed bemusement, confusion and remorse playing games within her gaze.

Guilt swims heavy in the copper girl's stomach as she gazes at the filly, lost for words. What could she possibly say to ease the swelling emotion which threatened to arch up and devour them all? How could she ever, ever make it right, find the child's forgiveness when she had failed so utterly? It takes all she has not to hang her head in shame, to curl up and cry- she is supposed to be a protector, a knight. But knights are strong, and the girl knows this is her chance, the opportunity come to make up for past failures. She forces herself to stay upright, relaxed.

She does not have to force the affection into her eyes.

Three-tailed brother springs down from her back, nose wrinkled in distaste at the ice and snow. On nimble paws he approaches the child, head held low and tails subdued- non-threatening, a smile on his vulpine face. From behind him her voice breaks into the cold, soothing and deep, only faintly lined by the brassy anxiety which rises in her throat. "I'm Tandavi. This is my brother Natraj." She gestures toward the kitsune who has raised himself onto his haunches, waiting to see if the child will approach. She smells like embers and pine and snow, tastes like sunlight and ashy grey. Firechild swallows, unsure what to say. A million options swell in her mind. She picks the one which is honest.

"We found your egg. We watched you hatch. Then... we lost you." Alto voice cracks, and the onyx eyes close, forcing back shame and anger with herself. How could she have done something so awful? How will she ever, ever find a way to make amends? She opens her eyes and steps forward again, wishing she could close the gap between them, take the child somewhere safe, somehow make up for her youthful mistakes.

@[Aithniel]

She wishes she could burn it all away. She would burn herself if it would save the child- but fire dancer knows that the point is moot, that she cannot erase this girl's past any more than she can erase her own. She wants to cry out when the girl's lips part once more, to sob that no, she does not know her mother, and that if she had she would force the errant mare to answer for her crimes. Why are so many abandoned, lost? Why do so many children wander; why do so many parents fail?

It is a shock of light on a winter day, freezing water in a summer sun, when the realization finally dawns, nearly three years too late. Despite the trails that have gripped her, despite the fear she has faced, the girl is fortunate, moreso than most, for she still has the searing warmth of a million memories, all of a family which loved her more than life itself. She has the face of a mother, the touch of an aunt, the tales of uncles, the laughter of cousins... She has a world where everything was bright, carefree, joyous, where the only darkness that could touch her was the dark mystery of a loving moon.

She would give anything to recreate those memories for this child. She would trade all her happiness, to see the emptiness, the anger in those silver eyes snuffed out. But the girl knows she cannot. All she can do is make it better from here.

The boy waits for some sign of acknowledgment, and when there is no negative reaction he takes it as a positive sign, an indicator that he is not going to be burned, or blasted, or hit by whatever magic the child holds. Comically over-sized ears lift up, and are immediately buffeted with a painful blast of cold. He squeaks, drawing back into himself, falling dramatically onto his back mere footsteps away from the ashen child. Gold eyes flick from sister to youth, as he waits for some response to his display. He hopes he can distract the girl, enough to soften the next blow.

"No."

The alto voice is gentle, but honest- no, they truly have no idea. Not of the mother, not of the father... but maybe it is even better that way. Maybe the mother is better unknown, for if she is capable of committing such sins, does that not demonstrate clearly her fitness to love, or lack thereof? Natraj is not so convinced- Maybe deserves another chance, the boy suggests through their bond. We do.

The girl shakes her head, braids dancing in the winter air. It's different. You know it. At least we tried.

She forces a smile back onto her face and fidgets, trying to find comfort in the painful chill. When she speaks again it is louder, a forced confidence that barely hides the painful beating of her heavy heart, the towering anxiety that fills her ears. "You could come home with us," firedancer says gently, an unconscious emphasis placed on the word home. She does not know where the child has lived all this time, but certainly that place cannot be home- not to a firebird such as this.

Slate hooves shuffle as she prays for the yes. Even if the girl says no, well... Fire dancer sets her teeth. She will not lose the child again, no matter how long it takes to get her back. If ever she had a battle worth fighting, the copper child knows that this is it.

@[Aithniel]

The 'No' leaves her lips, and she wishes she could take it back- though she has no idea what should go in its place, what lie would be true enough to take back the tears which well in those silver eyes, quell the ache of the still beating heart. 'Yes' or 'She's dead'- even 'I am' would ring false, an ashen lie on a barbed tongue, and the fire dancer does not lie. She merely mourns, and regrets, and continues a helpless fight for a better tomorrow with every dawn, her brother a shadow, ever by her side.

Except just now, for he was still near the girl, carefully moving closer, trying to touch, to gain an embrace. He peers at her and slinks along, playful, bright, inspecting the child's cloven hooves and batting at the beginnings of baby feathers. He is his sister's keeper, and her compass, her anchor in a sea of sensation, emotions adrift.

She is not surprised by the anger, yet it still stings like a slap in the face, too-hot water on a frigid day. Ears falter, eyes dart, but she does not abandon the softness of her face, the affection in her eyes, the promise presented that she is a friend, that the girl can trust her, come back to her, let her try again.

Fire dancer is caught off guard when shame splashes onto the child's face. Dark eyes blink, lips uncurl. "I understand," and she truly does, sincerity in the alto notes of an expressive voice. Though she wishes the child would return to the Throat, she knows that homes can turn to dust, fall into ruin and memory and despair. Had she not left her childhood haunts, and was she not haunted by them now? No, though she does not like it she understands, and a smile presses further onto her face, a smile which only grows slightly strained when she learns where the child lives now.

The Basin. Land of demons and darkness and death.

Anger begins to sear the edges of her heart, and she hates herself for it, for it is an easy response to a difficult situation. She wonders if this is how parents feel when their children rebel, this anger and fear from a place of love. Does she love this filly she barely knows? The girl isn't sure, but she thinks she must, for she would do anything to keep the child safe, give anything to reclaim the opportunity lost. That the firebird should be hunting a murderer appalls her, even though the child has pursued the same killer, even though the dancer is herself still nearly a babe. "The Sun God?" she echoes softly, surprised to hear her deity's name. Who was this filly, that the God had asked her for his aid? Who were her friends, and were they decent like Sacre or intolerant, deadly, as she had heard from her mother many unicorns to be?

Ideas form, but are dismissed, to be mulled over later, in a sleepless night. The girl flickers, shifting in the snow; she must be grateful to have come this close. Instead of pleading for more she accepts what she is given, nodding as the girl offers a visit, a return to where she began. "We would love that," she answers honestly, speaking for herself and the kitsune who has attempted to find warmth within the child's tail.

And then she asks something she has been wondering all this time, something she feels foolish for not knowing, guilty for not giving, ugly for not asking. "What is your name?" she gently inquires, hoping that her egregious lack of knowledge will go unnoticed by the child.

@[Aithniel]