The landscape has changed. The grasses are stiff, but not from dry heat, from a layer of ice that has solidified along their stems. The ground has a thickening layer of frost turning it white. The areas where my hooves have scraped against it reveal what was summery dirt beneath, but the imprints lasted only seconds as the snow fell down, muting and freezing everything. Finally, now, I look to the sky, I realise the damage I have woven. Snow falls upon my nose, my whiskers curl as my nostrils snort the flakes away from their opening. Shit, the thought tumbles through my crown, loud against the denial that had filled it previously. I am pulled away from my denial, from my self-pity, and plunged back into the reality - the reality of my magic, of the weather taking on a dangerous shift. I was shivering still, my thin, summery skin not taking kindly to the sudden chill.

A voice sounds behind me. My ears, once tucked beneath the knotted and dreadlocked ropes of mane and forelock, lift to catch her words. Regalis, they say, my hawk's name was Regalis. I let the words wash over me, I let them fill me up, wash away the denial, the hate, the sorrow, albeit momentarily, but it is a moment of reprieve, of relief, and I cling to it, selfishly willing to deny the hole, the broken soul, the damaged and rotten remains that decay in the coffin that is my body. My bodice turns around, back towards the crème belle, and I feel the softened curves of a smile start on my face. They freeze though - literally and figuratively, as I realise the full extent of the damage I have wrought. I stumble - for my lower limbs are numb and a bit useless by now - towards her, and I sling a wing over her shoulders, rubbing them slightly to encourage warmth to spread back between us both. Sorry, I want to say, but the words do not come. My muzzle leans towards her, and I blow warm air towards her, hoping that it would fill the blanket my wing creates and start the thawing process. I look to the sky again, begging it to stop, but the snow only continues to fall. Salty tears continue to freeze around my eyes, some of them managing to drip a ways down my façade before they are halted by the sub-zero temperatures my soul has orchestrated around us. Please, stop, please, I beg to my own magic, feeling it vibrating within me, feeling it wave its conductor's baton at the skies, heedless of my begging.

"Sitka.." I murmur, barely a whisper. It is a pleading, a wish. If I am to die today, I want it to be with your name upon my lips. "Sitka, please," I beg, a bit louder, and I feel a shift around me. It like the sensation of a hot breath washing over me, and I feel a warm, summery breeze pierce through the snowstorm. My magic becomes more tangible to me, and I cling to it, grappling with it. But it is slippery, like a bar of soap in the shower, and it takes several moments of internal argument before I convince it to cease the freezing conditions. I breathe again, as the snow slowly clears, as the cloud above us slowly dissipates, as the warmth returns to thaw our frozen bodies. My attention turns to the mare again, to Rasta, and I hope I haven't hurt her beyond repair. My wing lifts up, and I fold it back across my own back, before stumbling a few steps away from her. It was as if the nearness of our bodies might allow her to see damage within me, and I was afraid of that..

I wasn't ready to face this. So my stumbling, stiff legs kept moving, slowly putting more distance between us. I was not ready for this.


[[ @[Rasta] <3 She isn't gone, just kind of half-heartedly walking away, lol. ]]