"Amidst the darkness the Lady is stirring,
Gently awakening from frozen dreams,
All the world has awaited this moment The return of the Maiden,
And Her promise of oncoming Spring."

She remembered. Circles cast and quarters called. She remembered flowers and white dresses and carrying the Brideog with the rest of the girls in Gran's village. She remembered the breathlessness. The awe and respect. The wonder that they thought her old enough to participate in the procession. The rituals of Imbolc. The celebration and honor of the goddess Brigit and all her goodness. She remembered the organization before and how she'd whined about the cleaning. Trying to be discrete as her Gran and Da' cooked up a storm in the kitchen, in preparation. She remembered … she remembered the candles.

There had been so many candles she'd been surprised the village hadn't gone aflame.

"The Earth now grows warmer, as the Wheel again turns
And as each passing day adds strength, To the Sun King's rays
The Maiden, of his gift of life, now silently does yearn."

Fire. She remembered the fire. She remembered the warmth. Warmth seemed to follow her wherever she walked. On that day. Particularly in those moments … she had felt blessed. The Goddess smiled down on her. Brigit smiled down on those who held her crosses and left her ribbons. She blessed the colors yellow, light green, pink and white, brown and red. Colors of the fire and colors of the new spring.

Once again the Earth is blessed
With life anew inside.

Ahh Imbolc. What good memories it brought her. What painful yearning it left her with. Because it hurt. It hurt so much to be here in this dead, empty house. Not her Gran's house but her home in America. The one she'd been raised in, raised as much Pagan as Catholic. Raised with her big brother. Eight years her senior, both father and mother to a scared thirteen year old when their parents had just … died.

"Blessed? You?"

"Yes, that's what Gran said." The ten year old grinned up at her older brother. With hero-worshipping eyes. "That the goddess Brigit blessed good little girls."

"Well, see there in lies the problem." He rubbed his chin in mock pensiveness. She wiggled in anticipation even as she proceeded to edge slowly away from him, knowing what was coming. "You're not a good little girl. I don't think good little girls giggle like mad during the blessing of the altar." He pounced on her like an eager puppy and caused her to start laughing like crazy even as she let out breathless cries of indignation. She was ten. She was too old to be tickled.

He'd protected her. He'd loved her. He'd castigated her. He'd taught her. He'd fought her. With her. For her. Everything she knew, everything she was it was all him. He'd showed her everything like a good big brother would, should, no matter how angry or exasperated he might have been. He'd made sure she never forgot. Under the waning or before the new and after the full. Even after the full. He'd always been there. Always. She had only been able to deal with the sudden death of their parents because of him. Deal with Gran becoming sick because of him. How was she supposed to deal now?

"But, Richard!" she had gasped. "They said MOTE. Who says mote? Mote. Boat" Richard held his fingers over his baby sister's stomach to give her a curious look. "Wrote. Dote. Shoat."

"Shoat?"

"It could be a word." She said defensively, but she was still grinning like a loon.

"That goes to prove my theory that little sisters are stark and raving mad."

"I'm telling Gran!" She exclaimed. She made no movement to move from her position of leaning against him. She felt good. Safe. She loved the Scottish air. She loved coming to visit her Gran. She loved the air in Haiti too, her mother's country. She loved the celebrations. Both Pagan and Catholic. They were a part of her, her history. Her mom, her da', and Richard. It just made a ten-year-old warm all over. Safe, protected. As if, the faeries were really watching over her.

"Well I'll simply tell Gran of your strange fascination of the word mote. I'm sure she'll have plenty to say on THAT."

She ignored his chuckle at her pre-emptive wince. Gran could sure lecture. "You can't. I'm blessed."

She could practically hear Richard roll his eyes. "More like touched in the head."

"Hey!" She protested, pouted slightly. Enjoying the rumble of his laugh against her back. It was deep and powerful. Like … Like special creatures of the night. Like Richard was. They had fallen into a companionable silence watching the games in a far off distance by a tree; it of course had to be interrupted by her incessant need to chatter. "Tell me again. Tell me again. About Faoilleach."

Wolf-month.

Named that way for more than the fact that it was the season of the coldest and harshest winters to hit this side of the equator.

Richard gave a put upon sigh. "Again?"

"Yes." She nodded. "You know, Gran says that means you're blessed. February falls in it."

"Does it?" He asked in mock-surprise.

"Aye." She said not knowing how much she sounded like said Gran. "Richard?"

"Hmm, pest?"

She decided to ignore that. "Richard. Being one … it doesn't make you sick?"

"Yes. Sometimes it does." She turned frowning eyes to him. He smiled down at her.

"But you make it okay."

Her eyes widened then she smiled in return. "Hmm." She said, pleased. Because it seemed right that she could make that okay when he made her entire awkward existence okay.

"Don't let it go to your head, pest." This time she did see him rolling his eyes.

Nevertheless, she didn't let that even slightly damper her mood.

She was warm.

However, they had forgotten. Her lips twisted in an ugly mockery of a smile as she looked at the cold house with frowning eyes. What a silly thing to forget. As they'd released the circle and let the scents of festivity and herbs fill the house, waft up the chimney. They'd forgotten that the season was also known as a' marbh mhiòs Dead month. Again for more than one reason.

Because dead was what Richard was.

Hunted and killed as if he was an animal.

Just because he'd been an animal.

Dead in Wolf-month. In the only other place, they'd felt safe and close since their parents death. In this place, their home in America. She'd found him dead. Dead one week after Imbolc.

Irony. Gotta love it.

Looking around one last time at the stain on the floor. She left the house. So gray without the colors of that day. The colors of Brigit. The colors of warmth and happiness.

The colors of Spring.

She was going to find that person. She was going to find who'd done this to her brother and then she was going to make them pay.

Wiccan Rede and the Golden Rule could kiss her ass.

She left the house but before she did, she touched the doorframe. Seventeen years of various people's heights scratched on it. "May Brigit give blessing to the house that is here; Brigit, the fair and tender, Her hue like the cotton-grass, Rich-tressed maiden of ringlets of gold." She whispered. Not the right time, but the house needed it. Richard needed it.

The Hunter who'd done this. Would need it.

And may the Lady and her Lord protect that bastard's soul.

"So mote it be."

"I honor Thee, Maiden, most blessed Bride
As your candle burns through this night
And thank you for the renewed life you offer us all
As you emerge from the dark to the light."