She knows she is changed, but she does not know what it was that changed her or who she was before she became this. She isn’t even entirely sure what this is. The only thing she knows with any kind of certainty is that there is more history inside her chest than there are memories inside her head. That there is something broken, something missing, something more.
Something she aches for constantly.
What she does not know is that magic tried to fill her. That it poured into her fragile glass skin until she was brittle and teeming with it, until cracks and fissures raced all across her delicate body more numerably than all the stars in every galaxy. She does not remember the way her own body had caved in with the effort of retaining the magic, that when it did finally shatter from her it left her dying and broken and wholly undone. It had healed her as it drained away - and was it remorse or an apology, a gift? But through the fissures of herself she had lost everything, and the magic only returned so much.
Her memories had been irreparably scattered, names and places and faces all gone from her as the life bled from her chest - and when she woke alone beneath the mountain, hurting and bewildered, she had not even known her own name.
It came to her in a dream though, came again in a dozen others before she claimed it for herself and then it never came again.
She wondered how many other dreams had been memories that tried to find her, memories she did not think to keep.
She is standing at the lowest point of the riverbank with her delicate red nose stretched out to touch the moving current of the water's surface. It is cold and loud, and the mist soaks her face and mane until the water beads like crystals over the glass surface of her impossible skin. She thinks she might like the water, might even love it. There is something about standing here that stirs at the dust and cobwebs inside her mind, something that tugs painfully at the strings of her fragile heart.
Her reflection is of someone shadowed and quiet, a face too delicate to belong to anyone strong. There is a galaxy of metallic gold flecks inside a pair of golden eyes that make her want to look away because they are too wide and too sad and so wholly unfamiliar. Who am I? She wonders, and she is glad for the way the current distorts her reflection, the way the pink flowers in her mane blur away into nothingness. Who was I?
When she looks up it is to find someone standing on the opposite bank. He is as unfamiliar as anything else, but he is also handsome. She forgets herself, studies the contours of his face and the places where green and gold meet like forests turned to autumn. She studies the patches of irregular white and feels something pang inside her chest, studies the elegant arch of his wings and feels something critical shatter to pieces inside her. “Do I know you?” She asks, and there is an out of place kind of longing as she takes a step forward so that the water has to split around the glossy red of her delicate legs. “Do you know me?”
Hope is a feeling she does not recognize. It feels like yearning and like pain, like a tangle inside her chest and around her heart that makes it hard to breathe.
Something she aches for constantly.
What she does not know is that magic tried to fill her. That it poured into her fragile glass skin until she was brittle and teeming with it, until cracks and fissures raced all across her delicate body more numerably than all the stars in every galaxy. She does not remember the way her own body had caved in with the effort of retaining the magic, that when it did finally shatter from her it left her dying and broken and wholly undone. It had healed her as it drained away - and was it remorse or an apology, a gift? But through the fissures of herself she had lost everything, and the magic only returned so much.
Her memories had been irreparably scattered, names and places and faces all gone from her as the life bled from her chest - and when she woke alone beneath the mountain, hurting and bewildered, she had not even known her own name.
It came to her in a dream though, came again in a dozen others before she claimed it for herself and then it never came again.
She wondered how many other dreams had been memories that tried to find her, memories she did not think to keep.
She is standing at the lowest point of the riverbank with her delicate red nose stretched out to touch the moving current of the water's surface. It is cold and loud, and the mist soaks her face and mane until the water beads like crystals over the glass surface of her impossible skin. She thinks she might like the water, might even love it. There is something about standing here that stirs at the dust and cobwebs inside her mind, something that tugs painfully at the strings of her fragile heart.
Her reflection is of someone shadowed and quiet, a face too delicate to belong to anyone strong. There is a galaxy of metallic gold flecks inside a pair of golden eyes that make her want to look away because they are too wide and too sad and so wholly unfamiliar. Who am I? She wonders, and she is glad for the way the current distorts her reflection, the way the pink flowers in her mane blur away into nothingness. Who was I?
When she looks up it is to find someone standing on the opposite bank. He is as unfamiliar as anything else, but he is also handsome. She forgets herself, studies the contours of his face and the places where green and gold meet like forests turned to autumn. She studies the patches of irregular white and feels something pang inside her chest, studies the elegant arch of his wings and feels something critical shatter to pieces inside her. “Do I know you?” She asks, and there is an out of place kind of longing as she takes a step forward so that the water has to split around the glossy red of her delicate legs. “Do you know me?”
Hope is a feeling she does not recognize. It feels like yearning and like pain, like a tangle inside her chest and around her heart that makes it hard to breathe.
FLOWER
i'm only steady on my knees
@Molech