Despite his yeti like appearances, the man was with decent tact and grace, the sharp tips of his horns not once grazing my flesh and his lips, while they had fumbled at first, soon caught on to the theory well enough that after the first few faltering moments, his speed was efficient and the product (not comparable to that of any of my handmaidens, mind you) was satisfactory. I stand still enough to let him admire it for a moment before I turn to inspect it, not able to miss the aura of pride radiating off of the overly fuzzy unicorn.

I revel in it, in a way. Not like most teachers do when their student has learned from them, with a smile and a brightening of the heart, words of praise falling like drops of rain in the midst of Ánoikse’s wettest months. I have no praise or smiles, barely even a rising of the brows as I take note that he has indeed made a braid among the rippling strands of my pale, ice toned mane, the only offering to him for a success being the promise of the feathers and a gentle bob of my head.

I do take note of the fact that the gleam in his eyes that I earlier named for the usual male reaction to pretty women still lingers, though faded, but I have been mistaken in calling it lust. What gleams in his eyes, as he stands back to observe me, is wonder.

How curious.

"Loop the bottom of the braid so that it is attached to the top, in a hoop shape," I say more softly than before, intrigued by my newfound question of why it is I am so fascinating to such a creature as himself. Surely he has looked into still water before, hasn’t he? It is most probable his sort knows very little about mirrors.

"I suppose I’ll need help getting the egg in it, as well…and looping some more hair about it so it does not fall," I turn my eyes away again, back to the crystalline wall I had stared into while he worked on the initial braid, ashamed to ask assistance from such an inferior beast and my poisoned heart aggravated by his nearness and my own emotions revolving around him; it is the usual game. My true heart tries to sing over the sound of the bell, and the bounding noise of the bell attempts to swallow my heart whole.

I try to enjoy this simple man, despite his stupidity, regardless of my own wicked temptations that lure me down a path of murder and darkness, a black palace for broken minds. I try because he knows how to live in ways that I cannot understand, as do all the other slovenly peasants of this land.

He can love life, and those he finds in it. He has a choice to hate. He has a choice to slip into dark caverns of the soul, or to wander in the gleaming fields of bliss.

I am forced to walk across a barren land, each path strewn with thorns and sharp lipped glass. I never had a choice, not really; I had been the only voice in a chorus of chanting that had not believed or known all the words. It had taken six of us, that choir, until we could bare the mindless droning no longer and tore from their tightly grasping talons the only one left of us who still knew the song of her own heart.

@[Beowulf]

Cealestis