Charlotte paces her way through the winter-bound Caern, earth sunk all jagged and forgotten and forgetting and remembering beneath its skin of ice. She is white as new-fallen snow, fur sheaning silver where the light catches it, like the horizon at dawn, like the moon on water, an adolescent wolf, light-footed and fine, who seems to drift across the snow rather than sinking in, rather than crunching through its layers. Fur thick and heavy, luxurious for the season, eyes bright as first-frost.
Pure.
So achingly pure that madness must skim as neatly through her veins as the promise of power.
--
Charlotte, with Erich, with Avery. Hers is a winter howl, an ice-bound howl, a crescent-howl not a full-moon howl, but of course she was born under a cheshire moon. What other song could she hope to sing.
Pure.
So achingly pure that madness must skim as neatly through her veins as the promise of power.
--
Charlotte, with Erich, with Avery. Hers is a winter howl, an ice-bound howl, a crescent-howl not a full-moon howl, but of course she was born under a cheshire moon. What other song could she hope to sing.
But my heart is wild and my bones are steel
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula