Secrets; they were the world, the force of the universe, the stars and the moon and the clouds and the earth, all of the galaxy driven by the stories locked away in your heart evermore, slowly growing dusty but the pain never fading. Eventually, they will spill from your mouth unbidden, be unearthed by someone in your life, whether it be friend or foe; and then you will face unwanted judgement for your past locked away, even when you had warned that one to leave it be, that some things were better left behind. Those who do not speak, who wear the silence like a well-worn coat, sheltering them, protecting them from the rain, will always guard their secrets- and they have many more than their fair share- precious and close to the heart, no matter how much of a burden they may be, weighing down each step.

Hespera was one of the type who kept her heart locked behind bars alone, and the only one nimble enough to crawl through was the little griffon who listened to her memories and watched them unfold.

There was no muscle lining her back nor rounding her haunches, none padding her shoulders. For all the world she looked like a woman who had just crawled from the womb, still wet with the blood of a babe, weak as a filly born in winter. For in a way, that was what she was. Nevertheless, her mind was stronger than a child, and so she learned to use the frail muscles quick as she could, unwilling to be left behind by the mare who had taken a chance with her. Otienu was unable to express his shock in her- her- at being… bone and muscle and sinew and blood, and had shared his surprise with her until she brusquely shoved their mental connection aside, throwing up an iron wall which he could not surpass. Growing sullen from his poor treatment, the hatchling took the sky and flew above, welcoming the shadows engulfing him, even if they did frighten him- but only just a little bit.

For once the secrets of her past did not bite at her as Hespera focused upon the movement of her limbs, and she welcomed the lightening of her shoulders.

Eventually, it came so that the movements were natural, and she found her mind turning to the mare who reminded her so strongly of a shield-sister she had left behind. As aforementioned, the young goddess- or not-goddess, now- rarely opened her mouth to vomit up words. Daermaethor had taught her better than being the pretty mare who talked freely, as if all the stallions were not intent on stealing her virginity and taking her home. Trust came with time, he had warned her; never put your faith into something you do not know. The stormchild kept his words close to her jailed heart, for the marble father had loved her, and she had loved him back, a daughter and father, inseparable, the most powerful family in the world.

So she kept silent as Yseulte, the iron fist and silk glove, told her there was nothing to forgive.

She was so very wrong; what was she but a horse of unspoken apologies and committed wrongdoings she had never bothered to fix?

The mare moved with a hitch to her swinging hips, a touch of a limp murmuring of a story. Hespera wasn’t particularly interested in a story, so she did not bother to question it. Throughout the years she had heard too many stories she did not care for- detestable, horrifying stories that would rob one of their youth and innocence. Some had come from Daermaethor’s lips, in hopes of hardening her. Indeed they had hardened her, turned her heart to steel and iron.

Blood dripped off her, chilling her skin. She wished the cold was gone. She wished the scent that cloyed her nostrils and burned her throat was gone.

Slowly the trees thickened to a monstrosity of darkness and deep darkness, until she was only following the faint flicker of violet lit by the lantern trees, and occasionally relied upon Yseulte’s scent of wild. It came so that she felt she was following the mare into the bowels of some giant beast. Yet no fear chilled her heart- she was too set on the idea she was invincible, and perhaps that was her greatest problem, a flaw she was not even aware of. Words, sliding gracefully from the lavender mare’s mouth like water slipping down a mountain stream, awakened her to the real world once more.

Whose blood are you covered in?

What could she say? That she did not know? How she woke on the snow and lay there, lost? How the last thing she knew, was that she was forced into a real skin and was caught inside a body? Hespera did not know the iron lady.

Trust was a dangerous thing. Perhaps she was too strongly reminded of Berian, but she found the words tumbling off her lips unbidden.

“I do not know, and my guess would sound mad to you.” For a moment, her voice cracks. “Let’s just say… I was not always a mortal. My first step into this world was the one that made me into what I am now, as I walk.” Hespera doesn’t look at her. She doesn’t wish to know if Yseulte thinks she is crazy.

“I’ve killed before today; and now you owe me a question. Who was your father, who was your mother? You remind me of someone I once knew…”