01-29-2017, 07:28 PM
She is an agonizing thing: normal.
This is agonizing because she comes from a family of monsters and magicians, born at the edge of a great mountain and left there. She only knows them in stories, knows her sisters are a necromancer and a monster both.
But she? She is nothing.
A black filly-turned-mare, named for innards – for things discarded, leftovers from violence (a theme, in their naming – they are named for death and dying, the trio of women born in succession: violence, charnel, viscera).
(She doesn’t know the things that are inside her, encoded but not expressed because of the gagged magic. The things yet to come.)
She is not a social creature; instead, she seems to echo some of her father’s feral qualities – she prefers shadows and silence, and does not know how to speak to others, does not know how to connect when she has spent so many months being alone.
But the path today has led her here, where it is more crowded and the air is thick with words. The muffled conversations itch on her skin and her ears flatten backward. She thinks to run, to recoil back to her solitude, but before she can she crosses the path of a horse with wings like some terrible beast. Her ears are still flicked back, she is nervous and strange and agonizingly plain, and it surprises her more than anyone else when the word spills from her lips: “sorry.”
She should move, be on her way, but she takes a moment. Watches the mare, looks at the curve of her wings, and wonders, briefly, what it is like to fly.
.
v i s c e r a
you have blood on your hands, and I knew it was mine
hoo boy am i out of practice