Life was decidedly unfair. All around her people were growing stronger, taller, older and wiser. She on the other hand, looked as though she had completely stopped growing already. Short, scrawny, gimpy and slow, the only thing she had going for her were the wings, the icy magic and an ivory bow bequeathed by a dying mother. Some might say it was plenty - some might call them blessings. Erthë didn't. What was so good about a set of wings when you couldn't make a running start and take off from wherever you wanted? She'd rather have her mother than the weapon, and what, after all, was the purpose of freezing water when Frostfall would do that eventually anyway?

If she could at least grow normally. It was definitely too soon to stop increasing in height, she was barely a year old and they couldn't possibly expect her to be satisfied with a measly 13 and something hands, could they? The dove had a suspicion that something was wrong with her, like an illness or maybe a flaw in the diet... She had been weaned early, the change from suckling to purely grazing abrupt and unexpected, paired with constant pain and a steady intake of painkillers. Maybe that's where the problem lay... the accursed milk-weeping flowers.

But there was nothing she could do about that, not before Lady Ophelia had persuaded the gods to heal her legs. Until the pain disappeared she had to continue eating the herb, or she would cease to function from the side effects.

On the whole, it made her feel trapped. Staying in the Edge had been stifling too lately, with more new faces around than familiar ones. Sick and tired of it all the dove fled to the stillness and quiet of the deep woods, and amused herself with disrupting the silence in any way she could. Splashing through creeks and ponds, chasing up birds from their perch in dense shrubbery and using trees for target practice had a way of calming her down. That she left a trail of havoc in her wake was none of her concern - she was armed, she was dangerous, she was not weak, helpless or in need of protection.

Or so she told herself, as she fired off another few shots and watched arrows of frigid light draw frost flowers on the trunks of massive trees.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

Not helpless.

Not weak.

Not. Useless.

Erthë

and my knees are shaking - - and my dreams are breaking - - but i know i live today