magic itching in her veins

Weaver

Time is the substance from which I am made.
Time is a river which carries me along,
but I am the river;

Her mother had told her stories of her wedding to John. Weaver had painted a fantasy of it, in some ways, though not an unreasonable one. Still, she couldn’t help but imagine the figure her mother had cut in her gown, white with a red sash around the waist. She can’t help but imagine John’s face when he saw his bride that day, because he had loved the wildness of Straia in a way no one else could have. He’d seen her, had known his wife for exactly who she was and never asked her to be more (or less). He would have seen her that day. Not just the dress, not just her cool amber eyes, not just the dark hair that fell in waves around her shoulders, or the kohl that lined her eyes. He would have seen her heart as no one else could. He would have seen the color of her soul.

Weaver hopes that is what Deimos experiences.

Weaver grins slightly at the laugh, at the discussion of cake, and their quiet rivalry for the sweets on the table as if there were not enough to go around. There had been plenty in the bakery, there would likely be far more at the wedding, and yet they would fight for the goods all the same. ”And what is the best flavor? I will make sure I only eat most of those,” she teases, a playful curve to her lips, mischief sparking in her eyes.

it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger;
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.