Blackfeather Woods I just needed a little off the top.

The pale figure of the boy is still trying to find his footing. The pain in his head isn't helping matters, except in the case of his identity, but as the pain begins to recede so do some of those bits and pieces. Some things have fallen in to place thanks in no small part to the bludgeoning of Tegan's face against his own. He knows his name—he knows that Fire was right all along, that he's a Redhawk, and he even thinks they're all on to something with the hating him thing—but before he can learn more, that mental wall is correcting itself. Whatever cracks were caused by the collision have been mostly remedied; he feels dizzy, and confused, but also very certain of a few things.

Specifically, he knows he doesn't want to die. The boy can't quite come to terms with what to call himself—is he still the sweet-heart, the passive Mou, who loves the dark forest and the ghostly girl from the island? Or is he Screech, this volatile fiend that desperately wants to be set loose, all rage and teeth and endless self-loathing? He doesn't know. Perhaps neither. Perhaps some mixture, but for now Titmouse feels like a day old frappuccino that's gotten nasty and separated. Maybe mixing things up isn't such a good idea.

But the confrontation is happening and there's no getting around it; the opponent, this antagonistic child that's full of piss and vinegar and probably eighty-percent spite, is glaring at him and screaming. Titmouse thinks he's staring at himself for a second. Come to think of it, Tegan looks a lot like him. At least back before he became this forgetful ghost—god his mind was a jumble.

This series of thoughts and musings swirled about Titmouse's addled brain, even while Tegan was shouting and prostrating like some kind of David figure versus a not-so-giant Goliath. Tit feels an absence and a soreness in his face, and upon glancing at the dirt he sees the slicked stone that once sat in his now empty socket; gross. Maybe this would be the ammunition Tegan would use to slay him.

His teeth are gritting, and he's watching Tegan as the boy circles him like some kind of carrion pest. He can't speak, can't defend himself that way, and remembers—Mou—he remembers the sea, Seelie—and with a slight inhalation, the cliff.

The boy's eyes widen. One gaping socket, one bright gold eye, glowing like the sun as a beam cuts across his face. A sublime horror sets upon his pale features but he isn't afraid of Tegan. Titmouse remembers the feeling of Towhee's teeth in his throat—

—and he all but collapses under the weight of those memories, gasping a sound like the freshly risen dead.