[ . o b s s i o n ] {cinder}

I am a fucking faerie princess, nay - Queen of the Fae. I live in the woods and forage berries with my bear hands. I rule the forest like old-fashioned dictators of the abysmal past "America," or that asshole Snow. Yea, he's a dictator if I ever saw one. Hear, hear. Hear the words of Truth. Fae don't lie, children. We don't need to, because usually yea - we are impressive as Hell demons. We're usually pretty, I guess, and besides a minor allergy to iron, I think Fae are probably the least vulnerable of the seven fucking realms of magic. Excuse me! "Majyk."

I think that's how the old-worldies might've spelled it. I think a lot of things, objective little things that don't matter much to regular people, must've been changed by Snow and his regime of bubbly-drinking, pain-numb imbeciles. I wonder if changing truths that we've forgotten, if maybe that's not a crime. I know there must have been someone before our scientists who proved heliocentrism, but right now the brainy District is credited with the discovery. Maybe there's an ancient skeleton roiling in the ground, clenching his bony fists and gritting down the last of his jaw bone till the worms eat through the weakened mess and Snap! He can't talk to his skinless little friends anymore.

Without words, we become "forgotten," dead memories. Fear must drive us to accept new facts that don't make sense, because we must realize that if an ancient man's life-work can be erased by a few bombs here and there, or if a museum's worth of art are so many ashes from the flames of city riots, then a brittle, human body? How can we survive forever if forever may not exist? Hell, I wish I could believe firmly in the transcendental power of words, words bridging generational gaps and stirring all these mixed up emotions, but maybe even words aren't enough - maybe we need something stronger to be braided into our genes so we finally remember everything "we" have ever accomplished, ever faced down.

I feel like I could be strong then, a true Fae Queen, made of steel. The kryptonite of my past would be forgotten. My iron-eyed past wouldn't be looking at me now with a bizarre lack of instinctual feeling. I wouldn't be facing the figure in the woods and still feel like an utterly alone little girl facing down the big-bad.

"Skid," I breath.
"Katarina's Skid. You've missed me?
Probably, yea. Probably a-fucking-lot."