There is a soft breeze which tugs at her mane, a zephyr which begs her to arc back around, to look at the pain on the dark boy's face. It is trying to warn her, the small gust of wind, to help her understand the mistake she has made, the misunderstanding which grows deeper in time, threatening a chasm too wide to traverse. If only she looks then she might comprehend, halt her harsh thoughts and soften her heart; if only she looks then it might be okay, and the void illuminated before it grows too late.

The wind cannot force her to turn, but his voice does. She pivots abruptly, surprised and confused, black eyes growing narrow as she stares into his face. Why? Is he joking? Is he mocking her pain? But no- he might not care about her, but the boy is not cruel; she is certain of this, though all else is unsure. Then... could he not know? No; her sins mounted up far too high, there was no way he could possibly have forgotten them all. She stares at him, unsure, not knowing what to say. She has come prepared to leave unforgiven. Now she wonders what it is she could have to forgive.

She sighs and she frowns, shaking her head. Why is it so hard for him to understand? "I'm the one who fucked everything up." Bright, bitter anger creeps into her voice. He has rejected her apology, and his sadness confounds her, stabs her with deep guilt. She trains her dark gaze on the grass by his feet, unable to meet those electric blue eyes. Why will he not acknowledge her faults? The sins of her mother, the bright burning sun, and now this betrayal, this power abuse? She'd used magic on him, made him act outside of his head. The expressions which passed across his broad face, the adoring touches he had tried to bestow... they had all been her fault, and worse, so much worse, part of her liked it. His attention, affection... but it was a lie. He'd never look at her like that on his own.

"I can't control my magic." The words are a whisper in the echo of his cry, wistfully hopeful, mournfully soft. She looks to his eyes without accusation or rage; she is open now, broken, her pieces exposed. Gone is the armor, the wondering still, the silent demeanor and the cautious reserve. She is tired of losing, tired of watching her care thrown aside. Once, she had thought Sacre might be her friend... but once she had believed that her family would stay, and once she had not been afraid of the dark. Now nothing is certain and it all rests on her, weighing down the waif-like shoulders until at last she begins to break.

@[Sacre]