They sink into the forest, silent as ghosts, leaving behind them only a flickering light, the embers of their presence. Quietly, purposefully, she moves through the looming trees; but the calm of her body belies the chaos of her heart, the pounding in her ears drowning out everything but her thoughts.

She has come face to face with a specter, a wraith; and the girl is shocked into silence, drawn back to her time as a filly, wide-eyed and frightened of the bumps in the night. Mauja is a name out of mythos for her, as surely as Deimos or Torasin or Kri; it is an incantation of her history, a memory of her mother, passed on to the girl through stories and threats. That she should have saved him, a murderer- it sends a chill down the child's spine, and she shudders, faltering before pressing resolutely down her path.

By the time she reaches the memorial she is running, hooves biting half-circles into the moist earth, fire and shadow darting between trees, leaping over debris like wild, unbound things. She does not stop but accelerates recklessly, threatening to crash like waves upon the crumbling monument, against the preserved bones. At the final moment her body breaks, turning impetuously- too fast, too fast, and a howl tears itself from her lungs as slate hooves search for purchase and fail, gold-dipped legs escaping from under her, her copper body crashing into the bracken on the ground.

The girl is broken, but Lace's memorial remains unscathed.

She lies there, besides his bones, and breathes. For a while it is all she does, all she can do, while her brother comes and coils beside her, occupying the space between her limbs. The scent of forest fills her nostrils, musky and dank and decidedly him; she wonders idly if he is watching her, wherever it is he may be. Has he seen how lost she has become, how fall she's fallen without him- without any of them? Lace, her mother, her uncles, her aunt- do they know the shadows they cast, the way they cloud her vision, even in death? Why do only the bad ghosts remain, the Frost Heart and the Reaper, and why must she be haunted by past generations' sins?

"I don't know what to do." Her eyes are dry, and her voice, too; she speaks calmly to the stones, despite the pounding of her heart. "I can't leave you behind, but I... I don't know who I am anymore, Lace!" Her voice chokes in her throat, a sob struggling to break free; Fire Dancer bites it back fiercely, rolling up onto her knees and staring at the stones, as though seeking their reply. "I can't do it! I can't be enough! Amaris deserves better than me- she deserves you!"

At last she rises, and her voice goes dark, quiet and low as she stares into the earth. "I'm sorry, Lace... I don't know what to do. I wish it was me, and not you... I wish I could trade myself, so she could have you back."

Another trek through the deep forrest, still old and gnarled to be sure, but not as frightening to the little mare as it had once been. Though many trees were hardy evergreens, the others had shed their leaves to stand like skeletons but this allowed a little more light to reach the forrest floor. Another thing that helped was the milder weather; the cold was no bother and anything was better than thunderstorms in the faerie’s opinion. Little grey-washed hooves pick carefully through the brambles, taking her south to find the Veins again. It was past time she returned to the Sun God’s shrine and she was eager to see what waited for her there.

Aisling plays with lyrics in her mind, going over and over the words and verses of her composition and making adjustments where she sees fit. She would hum bits of the melody to herself as she went, to keep company in the silent woods, but the words stayed yet only in her head. Singing had always been a great love of hers, but when it came to writing her own songs she was terribly insecure and had never preformed one for an audience. The prospect of writing and singing a ballad worthy of the Sun was a daunting task indeed, and perhaps her trepidation slowed her steps. The longer it took her to get there, the better the song would be… Wouldn’t it?

A disturbance in the silent wood pulls Aisling from her musical musings—the sound of racing feet and the twigs that snap under each hurried step—and she stops to look for the source. A flash of copper and gold catches her eye: a figure moving fast through the trees on a path that had intersected with her own not far ahead. It is a wild run, from what Aisling can see, reckless in such close quarters and the little mare’s curiosity wis triggered in the instant it takes for the figure to move in and out of sight. Careful to keep her eyes fixed on where the copper flash had vanished, the little mare starts forward again, altering her own path to follow. The yell echoes back to her, one of surprise at least, and her fanciful mind is quick to hear fear in it as well so she quickens her pace.

Finally there is a voice ahead, and the white one slows to a cautious walk while pricking her was forward to listen carefully. Of course, she would be willing to help of there was trouble (and that seemed likely to her as evidenced by the show of haste) but knew it best to be careful. "I'm sorry, Lace... I don't know what to do.” … The words start to become clear as Aisling finally catches up to her quarry, approaching from behind and careful to keep her footfalls quiet and unobtrusive.

It’s a woman, the songstress discovers, youthful by the looks and not at all alone. Beside the copper mare flits a multi-tailed fox and both stand before formation of stone too conspicuous to have occurred naturally. The pile of stones rises, she sees, out of the earth with one placed prominently on top, and it speaks clearly to Aisling of loss. They had built cairns like this in the land of her birth, tombs for the loved and the highly esteemed and it seemed to Aisling that this one had a special meaning to the girl in front of her. The words the copper one speaks have the white’s heart breaking; she couldn’t turn back now, couldn’t leave anyone in such and miserable state and so she moves forward. “I’ve always been a lover of wishes, but even I don’t think that one will do you or anyone any good.” Her words are gentle, reaching out to the stranger, even as she stops herself at a respectful distance. “Fate will do as she pleases so better to wish for good things, and do what you can to help them along.”