Bramblepoint in the deep of the night, near the edge of the know

His steady breath caught, for the flower spoke. Not the one drawn beneath his paw, delicate as the petals were, still pressed against him, for flowers did not speak. Yet neither did the dead. That was why he gave them voice. But this voice he did not give - and yet, in many ways, it spoke so much like her.

She sounded different than he remembered, but he had lived without her song for - how many seasons? This winter marked the eighth, and it made sense for him to have forgotten the once familiar pitch, her laughing levity and play? His heart ached - she had told him this would happen, even as he had sworn he would always remember.

But despite the sudden shock of hearing the croon of a woman where he had expected silence, he knew this could not be her. The better half of her words made little sense to him. He knew nothing of these Blackfeathers, but the tease in the woman's voice slipped so much like her own - and the irony so tested a smile on his lips - he couldn't help the vanity to wonder. “If I’d known you here, I would have danced far quicker through the mountain crags, and sung more fevered to the stars.” But he did not turn to face her, for though he caught himself hoping, and found himself trying, he imagined his hope would snuff the moment he looked upon the stranger who sought, perhaps, her lover - a lover whose paws rested somewhere other than this peaty ground.