Graves are not always filled.

The fireflies hover over the murky depths, softly illuminating the sodden green ground, which has carved and snaked it's way across the hidden lake, allowing for the weary Traveller to gingerly make their crossing.

Cautiously, briskly, and carefreely she makes her way across the fire-lit abyss. Glancing only occasionally towards the grounds she relies upon to make her journey safe. As should she slip, or should the snake give way, surely she will perish.

Changing colour as the fireflies cast their blaze over her ragged caparison, the reds of the check pattern, now washed in green and brown, the blues now rinsed red from he who saved her; the once beautiful golden locks that swayed from her head, now the shade of copper and clinging to her paled neck.

Entrusting fate to the glistening, silver haired and horned beast, following into the shadow filled light, mesmerised by that which resembles freedom and faith; willingly one limb follows the other, not entirely certain of it's path, but certain of it's landing.

The light of the fireflies dims, to which the lizard rears it's head.