For a long moment no one speaks. As the silence stretches between the three, punctuated only by the tread of their hooves through over the loamy path, Rille realizes he is holding his breath. It surprises him how important the answer to this question is to him. If, somehow, fairies did exist in this Forest and fabled island of Luthien, it would validate for him one facet of his mother's stories, allowing him to roll a tangible ball of truth about in his palm and consider her tales as rooted in reality rather than a method of defense borne on the broken heart of a lonely little girl. In that space between words Rille tentatively touches a small thread of hope he had not known he'd been fostering for so many years.

Persephone is the first to answer him. Her careful choice of words is like a pair of thin steel snips brought up against that silver filament, but it is the quick glance bestowed upon her by Evren that clips it. He had known it could not be possible, of course, but his eyes flutter away from the pair to hide his vulnerability as it is confirmed. His chest aches for his dam. How vivid her fairies had always been to her, real enough to share stories of them with her son as if he, too, might see them if he just looked hard enough. Rille believes in the life of the trees: the spirits within the trunks are the same sort of life that powers the flesh of the horse, running on a slower timeline, perhaps, with how extended their lives are in comparison to his kind, but they are tangible. He can see every single one of them and bear witness to their part in nature's cycle. The same cannot be said for Jezibelle's winged folk.

"Very much so," he replies as he brings his dark eyes back to the Forest mares. He holds grief deep within his expression, but it belongs to the forgotten daughter of a time long past: it is not wholly his own. "She spoke often of these paths through the trees, and the solitude found under the boughs. Her name is Jezibelle," he says with a small smile for Evren. "And she liked most how the trees collect the dark after sunset." He pauses, sifting through what facts he has to share from the morass of fiction that has guided him to these islands. Most of his mother's stories featured horses described by their attributes or false monikers, but here and there a true name slipped through. Rille has collected them as delicately as discarded feathers, and he shares his collection now with quiet eagerness, his eyes intent on Persephone and Evren for any sign of recognition as he lists them: "She did not often speak of her family, but these are names I have heard over the years: Rurisk, Ikari, Impa, and Kisei. Do you... do you know of them?"