there's a song in your lung
and a dream in your eye
She had screamed. Oh how she had screamed. She had screamed from a mouth that would not open. She had screamed and never made a sound. She had cried tears that would never fall. Begged for mercy to ears that could not hear. But she had not been the victim. She had gone in with her eyes wide open, knowing the danger that awaited. She had played the part of the fool so well. No, she had been a fool, not a victim. Even in all the rage and agony of that unforgotten day, she knows this far too well.
The mare is relentless, digging ruthless thumbs into wounds unhealed. But she is unflinching. She had known pain, and this mare could not hope to visit a fraction of that pain onto her, even by opening raw wounds. He golden gaze nearly glows as it fixes upon her. Her sparking body stands in stark contrast next the mare’s glossy, unbroken one. And then she smiles. There is nothing happy in this smile, nothing kind or gentle. It is as cold and unrepentant as the white light flickering along the cracks in her skin.
Oh, but I am new, she says, implacable, unwavering honesty in her voice, her metallic gaze. He remade me. There is nothing old left, only new.
That this mare cannot see that does not surprise her. Few can see it, even if it is true. There is nothing of the old Joscelin left in her. He had remade into something new, something different. Something harder, implacable. Something violent and unpredictable. Something beautiful.
But then she surprises her. Rather than continuing to grate at those raw, exposed nerves, she halts her awful words. Instead she gives her name. A soft breath expels that single syllable. Surprisingly beautiful for someone she now knows is not. She lives in his lair. In that moment, Joscelin knows pity. She blinks large, golden eyes as she studies Perse with renewed interest. But, instead of pushing, she offers her own name. I am Joscelin.
joscelin