She knew no one else like her, but then, she knew few others at all. She’d been alone, for the most part, though her father had visited, albeit infrequently. He was odd, and his visits had felt perfunctory. He told her stories of her mother, of long dead siblings, and when she opened her mouth to reply her voice was always raspy, a strange and unused thing.
He had quit visiting months or years ago, and she hadn’t noticed for the longest time.
He’d been magic, her father. Or, was magic, she supposed. There was no singular ability about him, the powers changed and warped as suited him.
Since coming here, she’d heard his name on their lips, spoken with trepidation or hate or awe. He had a reputation, it seemed.
(She’s heard only slivers of stories, and has not sought out more than that. Many of the silvers are entirely unpleasant, and she does not want to know more. She is not particularly fond of her father, but she does not want his memory completely soured, either.)
She nods as the mare gives her name, short and sweet (unlike hers, more of a tangle on the tongue).
“Rae,” she repeats, to practice. Someday her words may sound effortless, but now, it is still a labored affair. She doesn’t practice enough. She doesn’t care to, really.
“Different how?” she questions, idly curious. Then, to explain herself –
“My parents are from here. I’m not. I’m trying to figure it out.”
It - the land, talking, names. How to deal with heat. How to smile without seeming a madwoman.
She’ll get there, or she won’t. There’s always the mountaintop.
tell me that girl is not a song of burning