the cinders are falling like snow; raelynx

[Cordis]

Perhaps it should have been foreseen, with her own queer becoming – she was born from a magicked womb to a father who lay dying. Her only memory of him is a fever-warmth, a smoky exhale of breath, a night growing cold. (Come morning, he was dead. Come morning, she set off and met Him. ‘Are you alone?’ He asked, a smile peeled across his face, and she, too stupid to know any better, replied the word that begun it all: ‘yes.’) Perhaps it should have been foreseen that whatever fruit she would bear would be damned, poisoned. She sees the boy from the corner of her eye – a young boy, moving towards her with a strange resolution to his gait. She moves to face him, head high, neck taut (she is not good with strangers, whether they are foals or full-grown, for strangers have never been good to her). She exhales once, sharp, watches him. He is placid, quiet. He is not a threat. She finds herself noticing things, like the fragility of him, the smallness. “Are you alone?” she asks, an echo of words once said before, and she is in a daze, does not realize how history has written itself across her lips. c o r d i s she said it was a mistake to let them burn her at the stake and she learned a lesson back there in the flames