Born, broken, remade, unamde.
These are the steps of him. Born glass, born fragile and stupidly delicate. Broken under a wolf-queen’s hooves. Brought back through powers he doesn’t understand, and then remade - awakening as flesh and strength, real, not the glass-thing he had been.
But.
The mountain quaked and whatever magic whirled in his veins went awry again, and gone was the strength, gone was the muscle and power of his body, back was the glass, back was the delicacy and constant fear of breaking. All his former strength gone. Taken.
He hates this body. The constant caution in moving, the fear gnawing at every inch of him. He is achingly aware of his own fragility, how easy it would be to shatter.

He feels the weight of others’ gazes as he moves. He is pitied by some, and by the crueler things, he is hunted – easy prey, with his translucent skin and paper-thing wings, useless accoutrements that cannot bear heavy things aloft.
He folds his wings tight to his body, as if he could hide them. As if their absence somehow made him less vulnerable.
He wants to cry, to scream, to rage at his loss (or, his gain – the solid body had been temporary, fleeting, a result of magic malfunctioning across Beqanna). The body he was born in, the one he’ll no doubt die in.
Breakable and broken. Unmade.

contagion

be careful making wishes in the dark