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you are a rose, petals unfurling, winter's bloom. your eyes are pale when they blink open -- pretty, then someone mentions that you might be blind and it isn't so pretty anymore -- but the moment passes and they are the colour of rich earth. you open your mouth to cry, the high wail of the newborn, and outside the wolves howl.[break][break]

like any other flower, you turn your face towards the sun and blink away the spots. there you see your ambition laid out before you, childhood aspirations as tall as snowcapped mountains; an artist drags their knife along the even planes to create sharp edges.[break][break]

sharp like a crown of thorns, acacia and quince; you are taught to carry yourself upright and not to smile. ( the kartals don't believe in smiling. 'why are you smiling? who are you so happy to see?' they stand spines ramrod straight, a soldier at attention, heels to ears an arrow drawn towards the sky. their faces are smooth planes or sculpted elegance, mana drawn tight around them like a second skin. ) bursts of beauty cover up the faults, beauty in the way a kartal establishes the realities -- sharp eyes with teeth sharper still, and bladed fingers that weave and work magic as they see fit. prying eyes can watch the snow melt, but they do not see. look longer, closer.[break][break]

and like the material of crowns you are not allowed to be soft; the ambiguity of a gentle smile should be a harsh line, your eyes need to be harder. colder. like ice, colours play across its glittering surface, dancing, never still. winter is everlasting, here, your tears will freeze to your cheeks and burn where they lie. your tears will not wash away the taint given to the name aeons ago. the expectations remain; you will rebuild the castle out of ice and reclaim what they have lost. ( it's about names and the rolling sound of them, and you think it's all silly tradition and intangible triviality, then you remember the kartals pride themselves on illusion, and so you don't really know what to say. )[break][break]

with thorn-tipped fingers you ponder the fool's cap; you 'umm' and you 'ahh' and finally you take the step forward with your family's voices ringing in your ears ( countless admonitions given with good intention; not that you're mad at them, but sometimes you wish there were another to share the burden ). change and chaos are the weapons of illusionists, the tools of trade plied between dark and light regardless. the trickster, the jester ( 'really? you couldn't have chosen something else, say, the knights?' ) -- perhaps your family is right in being wary ( the very antithesis of what they want to be; rebuilding their winter-born spine with pride and glory ).[break][break]

'it's dangerous,' they say, but and so are the teeth that lie beneath beauty; like butterflies pulling hurricanes to shore; like blood-coloured roses with their thorny armour. in the dead of winter, you might not be alone: soldiers stand in ranks and rows; flowers do not grow in solidarity.