Come with me my dear,
to a land like the sea, 
the grasses flowing,
so wild and free.

Come with me my dear,
we will follow the song,
to a land that is lost;
where our souls belong—

It was a poem my mother wrote.

I don’t remember the rest, and I suppose that should bother me. It doesn’t, and I don’t know why. The words always remind me of the plains, soft and—unlike the sea—strangely unthreatening. When they are not covered in snow, their movement is more rhythmic, foretold by the wind; the grasses rise and fall in a predictable dance, and although threats may hide between their blades, they do not materialise with the same ferocity as beasts of the sea. Nevertheless, as I walk through the snow, I think of how my mother is right: to a land that is lost. It is so vast it possesses a sort of half-remembered nostalgia. 

The wind is merciless across the barren plain. I dip my head and shoulder against it, and still it affronts me. There are no trees in sight; but I do see a rolling dip in the hills, and I begin to trot through the knee-high snow to reach it. It howls, and howls, and howls—we will follow the song, she had written—is this it, mother? Is this the song? Visceral and as hard-edged as a blade? I shake my head and try to focus on my pursuit: I am travelling to Solterra, to observe their relatively new Sovereign. I have heard the stories; of a man that walked through flame to take a throne beside a burning lion. The mark of the gods is all over it, and I distrust him intrinsically—

I dip below the hill and the wind cuts. I hear it above-head, but in the small lee I discover a reprieve—and, shockingly, another equine. I nearly bowl into her as I crest and descend the hill at a lope, but diverge my course at the last moment.

I immediately feel anxious, full of embarrassment and apology. ”E-excuse m-me. I’m not n-normally so oblivious." I clear my throat. The damn stutter. It only happens when I am taken aback, and my father’s voice rises up, unbidden, in my mind. If you were not so excitable, Lyric, this wouldn’t happen—

I clear my throat again, adverting my eyes from her as I speak. ”Are you travelling to Solterra as well?" From my peripheral, and flickering appraisal of her, I realise she is the pale colour of a rosy sunrise. Perhaps that is why I nearly ran her over; she is difficult to see against the snow, aside from deeply contrasting black marks. She is beautiful, a bit like my sister is beautiful--

was beautiful, I remind myself. 

@Maddox || "Speech."
Coding by Avis.

i know i am damned for the pyre

no matter how bright you glow when you call for me