saphira
—« Water is the oldest of ointments
rapid-foam of remedies
and the Lord of soothsayers
and God of healers. »
S
he likes how certain he is. “No one takes anything from me.” As if - as if that could be guaranteed, and even now she wonders if anyone could keep their happiness from being stolen right out from between their ribs. You certainly cannot guarantee friendship, or life, or riches. Not even your own magic, your own soul is guaranteed to retain its shape. Saphira thinks that he is very, very lucky to have been born a horse, and nothing more.“I won’t,” she says, smiling a little at his joke. She watches him shrink into the horizon and disappear, and when he does, she rises, grains of salt falling from her coat with a soft shhh against the grass. Saphira disappears into the vineyard darkness, alone again.
"How do the lucky ones feel
and how do the blessed think—
like water stirring
or a ripple on a trough.
But how do the luckless feel
and how do the caloos think?
This is how the luckless feel
how the caloos think—
like hard snow under a ridge
like water in a deep well."
and how do the blessed think—
like water stirring
or a ripple on a trough.
But how do the luckless feel
and how do the caloos think?
This is how the luckless feel
how the caloos think—
like hard snow under a ridge
like water in a deep well."
