I have to go home and recenter. Refocus. I shrug on my fighting leathers so that my arms and legs are covered and glamor the tips of my ears to round out and my lethal canines to retract to conceal my Fae heritage before packing up my things and heading home.|

I can’t… every time I think of her, this happens. Before I can trigger another reaction, I pick Fukushū up from the ground and slide it into its sheath.

Too close. But, as promised, the pain subsides slowly and I breathe deeply as my heart struggles to slow its pace. Fuck.

I look down at my arms that glow a soft gold where the lines of the scars my father gave me burn. I clench my jaw and close my eyes tight. It usually passes quickly, but it always brings me so close to breaking.

Pain radiates through me, blinding me as I fall to my knees. I haven’t had an episode in so long that it takes me by surprise. The scars that mar the honey hued skin of my arms burn and I let out a groan that I can’t hold in.

A memory that I work hard everyday to conceal. My blade falls to the grass as both of my hands move to press to my temples, the soft waves of my hair cascading over my shoulders as I lean forward slightly.

It’s the only piece of her that I have that provides me any semblance of peace. My memories of her have been corrupted by that night… that night…

I stumble on my last landing when the memory flashes before my eyes.

I came to this continent knowing that I couldn’t, but still craving the closeness of the fire breathing, magnificent beasts of my wildest dreams. My thoughts drift to the stories my mother used to tell me about Dragons and their riders.

To know another as well as you know yourself. I knew that coming here, it would be impossible to find the companionship I’ve craved since I was a child.

It’s perfect. I wonder if this is the closest I will ever come to true companionship.

The blade sings as it slices through the air effortlessly, my body singing with it as we practice our sacred dance. Perfect.

The soft, gauzy fabric that binds my breasts and the cotton bike shorts that tightly adorn my lower half give me the freedom and flexibility to flip backward from one foot to the other, Fukushū still firm in my grasp.

I twist the blade in my grasp, testing its balance as I slowly step forward. My movements are fluid as I turn, the blade dancing beautifully in my grasp, moving in perfect synchronization as I practice my daily ritual.

The mountain tops gleam in the distance as the warm glow of the sun slowly sets the dark sky ablaze. Standing up, I hold my precious katana, Fukushū, in front of me, inspecting the lethal edge with a scrutinizing gaze.

This is the only time I can be myself; My true self. The part of myself that doesn’t have to hide the points of my ears or the afflictions of life that don my body. Afflictions that show my pain and my history of violence.

|The slick blade of my Katana gleams against the waning moonlight as I slowly slide my blade along the wet stone. I breathe in, every motion of my body controlled. This is a sacred ritual to me in every way something can be sacred to someone.