Quiet hours brought down the hands of the crescent moon to draw shadows out from their hiding places in a place where trees were abundant and watchful. A small faeling woman stood in the midsts of this quixotic clearing, her alabaster skin aglow beneath the moon's pale light. Silence hung about her, thick and overwhelming almost to the point that it seemed it would break her in half. The night's crisp breeze brushed against her body, causing the floor length black and white hair to curl about her like shadows and light given life. Her eyes lay closed, as if she dreaded what she might see if she opened them.

"Are you sure this is what you desire, my lady?" whispered a voice that broke the silence and yet, made it seem even thicker than before. The faeling woman opened her eyes to reveal eyes that were alight with aquamarines and pale blues. She turned her head to let her gaze fall upon the statue of a centaur that stood sentinal-like to her right. A hand went to caress the strong stone face, as if to memorize the curves and the rises and falls of the statue's eyes.

"Aye...," she whispered in a hushed tone, letting her hand fall from the statue. She brought her arms across her chest and then followed suit with her irridescent wings. A letter fell from one of her hands, crumpled and folded as if she had read it a thousand times over. It came to rest on the grass before her, looking strangely out of place in this place of nature and myth. Silence again came to tend itself in the grove, as if that unseen presence watched this faeling woman with an unmoving eye. A gust of wind came to wind itself onto the trees that stood like guardians, causing their leaves to rustle suddenly. An eerie glow began to build itself from the earth, to the trees, to their hand-sized leaves, and then finally to the faeling woman. She closed her eyes for a moment, as a tear fell from down her face to throw itself onto the ground at her feet. Another moment of silence caught the grove before the faeling woman simply vanished from sight.

Quietude returned itself to that strange grove, regaining its lost throne. The note upon the grass lay limp like a forsakened dream, its edges already wilting from the dew of the morning to come. A small whisper bore itself on the wind, before it slowly faded into the silence of this place as if it marked the passing of time. A sense of time passing, with the old departing and becoming simply memories for the Fates to speak in whispers over; simply the last watch of a morn yet to come.