I find myself thinking of my parentage on long winter nights when the veil thins and fey magic surges.

Finvarra is often refered to as a king, but like all fey, their flesh is infinitely mutable. Finvarra loved to be whatever their flesh craved in the moment and nore often than not that craving was cruelty.

It is this trait for which I am able to sense the flood of fey magic on the solstice night but unable to use it.

Cernunnos, however, is a watcher. He is the eyes of nature - the deer-headed man. I have inherited his demeanor. But he does not speak, and so never told me of his coupling with Finvarra.

I find that it falls on me to share the stories I have seen, so that the burden of knowing, the burden that lays across on my father's ancient shoulders is lessened. I wonder, too, if a capricious mood took Finvarra one day and rather than cruelty they felt compassion. Did they sculpt my flesh to match my father's. Was I a gift? A burden?

When the nights are long, and my father's eyes burn blue and leave glowing trails between the trees and in doorways, I think of how those eyes burn with knowledge he can never share.

I wonder, too, do my own eyes burn? Is my own head a prison? After all, that is the only trait they two ever shared.