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The furs piled high upon her shoulders and swaddled about her body just can’t seem to keep her warm.
Frost coats the window panes, spidered across the glass in delicate lace-like patterns, foggy against the buildings towering beyond. Old architecture, she thinks, all stone and vaulting arches. Old and new, crumbling and enduring, parallels upon parallels–
Thoughts make her head hurt, too many at once but not enough. A pale hand, her own, presses itself to her forehead with an uncharacteristic wince. It’s a new thing, really, and while being to think for herself should make her feel so much more whole – a true thinking being, apart from the hands which had puppeteered her – it would be a lot better if the splitting headache would dim into nothingness.
But she is also a threat to this age-old system, to the rulers sitting on high, and somehow the fates pick at her consciousness in a reminder that she must be strong. This migraine is a small price to pay for the power that roils beneath her skin; a power to punish, a power to rebuild.
Grumbling, she readjusts the mass of furs and shuffles over to the hearth on the far side of the room. “Magnanimous,” she grumbles, “of him to give me these quarters. Better than being kicked out into the cold, I guess.”
Yet some part of her would rather be out in that cold, below snowflakes softly descending from nowhere. A frigid beast in frigid conditions.
That’s what she is, yes? A weapon turning against its wielder: a monster with curved claws?
Her toes, bare against the stone, curl in displeasure. They, too, are freezing, it seems, and she hustles closer towards the blackened fireplace. It doesn’t take much effort to drag a log of wood over from the pile, its bark dappled charcoal and red, and deposit it into the ashes long burned out.
Bright green eyes search for a match, and there sits the box, light as a feather when he scoops it into her hands. They’re the long kind, thankfully, and she strikes the first against the matchbox. Again, when it scrapes uselessly.
She finds herself snarling silently, all pearly whites and frustration, dragging the match across again. The stick snaps, the top half falling to the floor with a faint plink . Fingertips, now claws, root about in the box as she huffs. Temper the rage , she thinks.
Ah. That’d been the last one.
Her arm reels back, furs skewed and toppling, and she hurls the empty matchbox into where a fire should have already been lit. Swearing, loud and colourful, she nearly breaks out into a sob.
Yet imagine her surprise when the log in the ashes spontaneously combusts, crackling with her fury, green embers spitting out of the hearth and dangerously close to her bare toes. Her fury ebbs, mouth parted mid-cry, as the strange fire roars to life.
She bends down, tentative, sticking her face close. The flame is… cold, almost. It emits no warmth, though crackling and gnawing at the wood just as any other fire would. Nearly as strange as her, she notes with a frown.
Sensitive ears twitch, head cocking as the door opens at her back. A snap of someone’s fingers, and the flame shrinks momentarily to embers, melting into warmer, orange-tinted hues. Then it starts to grow again, slower and contemplative.
“You should be resting,” says the man – the thing – whose quiet voice shakes the stones. He’s gentle tonight, taking not a single step beyond the doorway.
“I’m cold,” she rasps, refusing to turn around.
“Then warm yourself, and rest after.” He hesitates, the doorknob clicking as he sets his hand upon it, leaning. “You’ve been through a great deal. Quite unprecedented. I–” Choosing his words carefully, he stops. “I shall see you tomorrow.”
She does not respond, does not give him the satisfaction. He’d saved her from an eternity of unknowing, yes, but she will forgive him for the violent wrenches of suddenly knowing later. Once the door finally clicks shut, she sinks to the marble floor, gathering the furs about her once more in a haphazard pile.
She leans towards the hearth, warmed and warmth, elbows on her knees as she slumps forward. Her hair will not burn, her skin will not singe, not here with his magic pressing in at all sides, so she takes advantage and crowds closer.
There are little bodies dancing in the fire, winking out with every shift of the flames, and she watches them twirl and swoop as the most pressing matter comes crawling back into her mind.
Now, she must choose a name for herself.