species; kirin
breed; thoroughbred
eyes; persian blue
coat; golden palomino
scent; rain and wood, under lied by fresh clay

I could not have made myself in a more perfect image than had my own hands been the ones to sculpt my every curve; to carve away the nothingness, the unimportant pieces, and leave behind only the most illustrious parts. Legs, which carry me tall and without fail, hooves delicately cloven and curved dew claws—unique to I and my ancestry. Legs, which rise to a deep chest, high withers and lean body. I am svelte on my best day, and lithe on my worst.

My neck is swan-like. To say that it is long, elegant, and holds my head high with grace. Always. The bones of my face are fine, chiseled, and have been on more than one occasion the reference of many works to come out of the academy. Eyes like painted china, eyes like glass, glinting, shining, bright. Ears long, and from my brow curves antlers in scrolling, ornate shapes. From my shoulders and my hips: diamond, plate-like scales.

I often wonder if it was my mother who handpicked my colors, who painted me with her very own brush after my birth. If you would look at her artworks, you would see the resemblance. Warm, deep gold skin, like late evening light. Stripes like something feral, something untamed. Aureate horns and scales, as though molded from gold themselves. Hair, long, luxurious. Soft as the down of a pillow, ivory as the finest silk.

I could not have made myself in a more perfect image than had my own hands been the ones to conceive me, as I had conceived him. Together, we should have been transcendent.

Then, he breathed. Him, my beautiful, my flawless creation. My Santiago.

I accept all the praise that I am due. All of their success, all of their talent, it is all as a result of me. Of the things that I can do. Ever since I was young I was told I would do great things, and now I wear divinity like a second skin. I breathe greatness with every breath. It is what I was meant to do.

I have always known that my mind is, and will forever be, an impressive thing. People think art is purely physical, and certainly it took me a long time to handle my tools as easily as I do now. But it takes just as much effort from the brain. So the fact that I can do what I can do—well, I don’t know why anyone would be surprised.

When people think mind control, they think villainy. If I cared what the common blood thought of me, perhaps I would be offended; but I don’t, so I’m not.

At this level, anyway, my abilities are unfortunately rather limited. It is less control than suggestion. When I focus (and especially when I lock eyes with someone—I’ve heard my gaze is captivating), it seems I can modify their mind in minor ways; especially pushing them to be more agreeable to my suggestions, or even slightly altering their perception of me. Many of the students resent me for pointing out their mistakes. That’s why I’ve learned how to use this gift to soothe their harsh feelings, though it seems the effects of my magic fade when I leave the room. When they get frustrated with their art, I can calm them down and bring them back to focus. If they don’t understand my criticisms--well, I just give them a little tap and help their brains connect the dots. I only wish the effects lasted longer. It’s frustrating, having to whisper in their ear like this, day after day after day, and feel them forget as soon as they fall asleep.

The house of de Clare is not a place for talentless hacks, and why on Vespera’s green earth my siblings keep letting peasants in is beyond my understanding. Every day I find another incompetent amateur roaming my family’s halls. So really—I had no choice but to strengthen my abilities. Our reputation would have suffered, otherwise.

Now I’ve learned how to sink into their minds more deeply. We lock eyes, and through their gaze I can almost see what they’re thinking as if it were a painting, though often murky, as if placed behind smoked glass, and using that—whatever fears they show me, anxieties, whatever they think they’re doing right or wrong—I convince them in a gentle voice that it will all get better if they do what I tell them. And I don’t feel bad about it, because it isn’t a lie. Their lives will get better if they listen. They will become practiced artists, good enough to get rich off their work alone, and never have to worry about money or status again. It’s just that without my magic, I think some of them might have a hard time connecting the dots:

    Elliot says to play softer. I’ll get rich.
    Elliot says to blend my acrylics more thoroughly. I’ll be successful.
    Elliot says I should use a point chisel there, not a rake. I’ll make my parents proud.

A few students require even more attention. A few students have forced my hand, and I’ve had to use all my focus, standing over them in their sleep, to remove the memory of a lesson in which they learned an incorrect technique, or the thought of a lover that has been distracting them from their work. Just a few.

One of the donors’ sons has joined my sculpting class. The poor boy doesn’t have an ounce of talent in his (admittedly attractive) body; but my studio needed money for repairs, so I don’t have much choice except to make this unfortunate situation work however I can. We sit, and I pour him and myself a cup of tea. I ask him about his family (though I know everything), his childhood, his lovers, and as we talk I am careful to keep the spoon in my tea moving in a steady circle: an infinity sign, a halo, an ouroboros, around and around and around until he is half asleep, warm and pliable.When we lock eyes and I step into his brain, I realize for the first time just how powerful I have become.

In here, there are no boundaries. All his walls have come down; I poke around and find no resistance. And though it should only take a few minutes, I can’t help being drawn in by the glamour of it all: I touch everything I can. I put years of technique practice in his memory storage. I teach him instantly how to pick a good piece of marble, until it's as intuitive as picking a good apple from our orchard. I line the walls of his brain with a desire to be the absolute best. And when he wakes up, he is much easier to work with.

My parents taught me many things before they died. But perhaps the most important—at least, what they thought was the most important, what sticks in my brain to this day like a burr—is that our family name comes before anything and everything else. (Sometimes I think Santiago would overrule that, if they could see him; but I don’t dare to imagine it all the way.)

So I do what I have to do. I have grown as practiced with my powers as I am with my chisels and paints and lacquers. My students are the best, not only because they spend so much time practicing, but because I am in the back of their mind every time they do, relaying to them my own experience, my many years of practice. I tell them how to fix their mistakes and make it look like old news. I erase memories of poor technique. I draw the lines, connect the dots between listening to Elliot and succeeding forever. Troublesome cases come to my office for tea once a week, and in that sleepy state I go in with scissors and twine, and I cut and stitch: memories of lovers and family that have become distraction; fear of failure that has become crippling; heightened perceptions of the physical world, until control of their thoughts and upper brain functions is left in my grasp like a tangle of wire.

I do what I have to do.

Music; faint, so faint you could almost convince yourself you'd imagined it. Like a ghostly symphony, wrapping gently around and through you. It seems to rise and fall with my emotions, while aiding in my attempts to use magic. A refrain to calm, another to aid focus—and maybe, just maybe, it will settle into your bones for long after I have finished with you.