[open] you're going home, you're rag and bone; any

[sochi]

there is a swelling storm and I'm caught up in the middle of it all
and it takes control of the person that I thought I was

 
Youth has begun to bleed from her bones.

Not entirely—but enough. Enough to lengthen her body. Enough to elongate her limbs and harden the angles of her face as the softness of youth begins to sweep from her cheeks. This same change, the maturity that settles into her as she breaches the edges of womanhood can be seen in both of her forms, both of her homes. In her equine form, she is taller, more angular and softer all at once; in her feline form, she is studier, her body filling out, the rest of her body reaching the potential of her massive paws.

Although her mother’s warnings ring in her ears, she has long since relinquished her guilt for being what she is. She appreciates Sloene’s cautionary words. She appreciates the worry of a mother concerned for her well-being, but she cannot deny the natural joy of slipping into the black and orange striped body, the power of it flooding through her as she tips her head back and shifts, hooves bleeding to clawed paws.

It’s this body that carries her today throughout the forest, slipping soundlessly behind the horses, her tail curved and silver eyes bright. For a long time, Sochi has learned to appreciate her own company. A bright and cheerful girl as a child, she has grown into something a little more somber, a little more serious. 

There is still something of that effervescent youth within her—quick-witted and quick to laugh—but she does not open her up so readily anymore. Instead, she is more prone to watch from the shadows, mouth solemn and silver eyes intense beneath the knotted mess of her long forelock. 

She still haunts the edges of Hyaline, honoring the exchange that she had originally agreed to, but it does not have her heart—not yet—and she does not feel bad for slipping away, finding nooks and crannies in the various common places to rest her head. Perhaps one day she will find a home that will sink its claws into her fully. Perhaps one day she will pledge herself to a cause, to a ruler, to a land. 

But not now.

Not when the wildness of the tiger races through her, the natural urgency of the predator sending her springing from her paws into the wild yonder, the wind whipping at her as she races through the trees. 

Freedom, she thinks as she sucks in the cold autumn air.

This is freedom.

sochi

it comes and goes in waves; it always does, it always does
we watch as our young hearts fade into the flood, into the flood