Narrow Shoulders

". . . Largely misunderstood to be a shy, retreating individual, it's the fox's unique stature as a small carnivore that defines its survival strategy. Because it cannot succeed in the world using brute force alone, it must rely on its sharp mind and engaging personality to garner resources, and it consequently spends a lot of time in its head -- giving the impression that it's trying to outsmart its friends."


Wherever I go, I seem to accumulate protectors. My closest compatriots tend to be physically powerful; almost invariably, they have martial arts training or a self-taught aptitude with swords and other archaic weaponry. I've always assumed, I suppose, that they saw me as one of them, someone who shared their interests.

I'm beginning to reconsider that assumption.

I think they see me as vulnerable in a way beyond the average person.

I've never been hit. Never. Not even by accident. Part of this, granted, is my skill at dodging, deflecting, charming, distracting, diverting. More of it is that whoever is with me either (a) shoves the attacker out of the way or (b) takes the hit for me. Not that many people have even tried to hit me in the first place, even though I often say very inflammatory things. From what I can tell, I inspire a fierce protectiveness in those around me, whether they like me or not.

When Thomas and I first became friends, long before he ceased to exist as himself, it was because we could offer each other mutual protection. I don't know how the understanding came to pass; I don't remember the week-long gap between the time we first met and the day he officially appointed himself my bodyguard. My very own version of the Secret Service. I was smaller than I am now, and more abrasive, but nobody could touch me. I could be fearless, because he never let me fall, not once. He let me be his weakness -- or at least to replace his old one.

Because I took care of him, too. I offered him verbal defense in the days before he became a debater steeped in philosophy. I gave him entrees into social scenes that would not have otherwise accepted him. More to the point, my presence protected him from any number of "honor" fights -- "not with a Lady present."

I've always been able to get away with that. Being the Lady. "No, you can't tip the canoe! Not with Romie in it! What are you thinking?" "How dare you make threats while she's in the room!?" etc., etc.. Even when I'm crass as can be, punked out and swearing up a storm, I exude nobility; waiters look to me even though I'm a kid in jeans and my companions are adults in tuxedos. I think half of it is my face -- even with pink hair, I look Victorian. Something about the nose, the small mouth.

As much as it irritates me, I use it. Weaknesses are advantages if properly utilized. Even if I do get angry with the posessiveness that accompanies the protection, friends' assertions that my few lovers "don't treat [me] delicately enough" regardless of whether I want that from them.

I don't understand what makes me come off as vulnerable. I know a thing or two about body language -- I have to; but I can't. . . . Maybe it's just the understanding that I'm the one who has to survive in any given confrontation. There's something I have to accomplish later; I'm marked for it. It's like I'm supposed to save the world somehow, only I don't know how or when or whether I'll know if I fail.



Watching "The Fellowship of the Ring" was unexpectedly hard, even with the warning from Valancy.

I knew a Ranger once. Now I spend my time with the Elves; I cannot love them as well, but they are much gentler.