On Kyne

Kyne does not rain forever because he is gone. Of the Wives, she is not given to that kind of inaction for long.

She is the thwack-thwack-thwack of high heels cutting concrete. Shoulders back, neck straight, eyes front, teeth clenched like fingers clasped around the whole of the Sun itself. Your arrows do not have a reach long enough to keep her from you. Your shield does not have a spine stiff enough to remain unbowed against her fury. Your dragons do not have a voice loud enough to drown out the shriek of the wind as it descends upon you. Kyne is the bitter smile carved into the throats of traitors. She is the Countenance that breaks the sky, the Voice that breaks the mountain, and the Touch that breaks the heart.

Kyne is that clenching in your gut, that flaring in your nostrils when you spy, across the lunchroom, the laughing face of the man who this morning gave your baby sister a black eye and called her worthless. She sings in your hair as you approach his table. Her hands brace your wrists and ball your fists- never bend without reason, she says. She is the revelry as he witnesses you, that putrid, disgusting arrogance melting into pale terror. His friends are clueless, but for once, he is not. Kyne pulls all color from your cheeks and binds it into a veil for your eyes. Remember the words. Force without effort. Does the thunderhead strain to break through the roof of the sky? Does the hurricane struggle to make landfall? Does the waterspout puff and sweat when it tries to lift up the sea?

No. Neither will you. He stands up from the table, nervous words that are drowned by the tornado in your ears. Kyne reminds you of the truth, simple and elegant: it is decidedly harder for someone to hurt your loved ones when their arms are broken into as many pieces as the Dragon’s are.