[private] of his bones are coral made

[sochi]

SOCHI

Sochi still doesn’t know what she’s doing here—why she has followed this particular scent. Like so much of the past few weeks, past months, she feels as though she is trailing after smoke. It is infuriating to feel an instinctual knowing of something and not be able to give it form; to know that something is different but not be able to give it a name. She finds herself sucked into the undercurrent of an emotion wrapped tightly around both apathy and fury and the stone that sits in her chest grows heavier with each breath.

She has never been one to truly explore the depths of her emotions, but she is driven by them—primal in her reactive nature. So she doesn’t bother to hide the brief moment of surprise that flashes across her face when the mare responds with her own name, as though she had been expecting her coming.

For a second, and then two, Sochi says nothing. Her mercurial eyes sweep over the mare, studying the obvious swell of her belly and the brilliant wings that do little to hide it. She catches the distinct scent of Loess on the breeze and something else that causes her mind to twist on itself, settling on a thought.

“I’m not used to being recognized,” her voice is husky and deep, rolling evenly despite whatever turmoil thrashes in her chest. She hasn’t lived a life completely devoid of noteworthy actions, but she has never been one to thrust herself into the limelight. She had no political ambitions—not when she was more interested in the hunt and the fight and the taste of copper on her tongue. She had played her part in both releasing the plague at both stages and then ending it. She become friends, allies, and then more with the dragon of the south—standing by his side during both dissension and then relative peace.

She had fought her wars. Born her children.

Even begrudgingly took the title of consort—a name of lace and pearls that sat uneasily on her.

But she had never been one to be so easily recognized.

So there is distrust that floods her, evenly matching the sense of unease she already feels, the growing flood of emotion that seeks some kind of relief. “How would you know who I am, stranger?”

Her lips flicker into a smile, but there is little warmth in the curve of lip.

she said a war ain't a war before both sides bleed