Sparrow fashions her new body out of stardust and gears and the first blooms of spring. Dark hairâby her own hand, this timeâand golden eyes. Theyâve been gold since the War, and sheâs gotten attached to the color. Maybe for the next Game, she wonât let them change. Sheâll keep as many things as constant as she can, for a few decades at least.
Wings, of course. She goes with her original ones to begin with, then reconsiders. She loves the sparrowhawk wings she was made with, but they carry too many memories right now. Best give it a century or two. Raven wings, then. For flare, she imbues them with a faint golden sheen, visible only under the sun.
She wants the warden side. But she wonât bury it too deeply, not this time around. She keeps the fangs and the denser bones, fashions the claws into sharper nails (gods forbid she wants to keep her dexterity), and allows the skin around the ribs to part, so whatever souls she collects will be able to come and go.
(Absently, she lengthens the hair further, looping it into a braid.)
The hardest part is picking which memories to keep for certain. Sheâll have them all, of course, but the ones she chooses will be kept perfectly. They wonât be blurred by the passage of time, so long as she stays in this body.
She inks them into the skinâflowers and constellations and smatterings of Galactic and anything else she can think of. Most will fade in and out, a shifting tapestry across her skinâbut some will stay. A skeletal wing behind her ear. The sword down her spine. The zinnias and forget-me-nots and lilies of the valley along her left ribs. A tiny sun, in the hollow of her throat. Columbines and asters and passionflowers snaking across her shoulders and down her arms.
When she is satisfied with how everything looks, she lays the body in her bed. Rearranges the limbs, drapes the blanket over her. Then, she dresses her current body for her death.
She takes out her old shawl, lilies and azaleas stitched into the hem. Her favorite white shirt, and soft green pants. The boots from her Life Games. When she looks in the mirror, she feels⊠lighter. Like the sharp edges of the past few centuries have been softened.
She takes a few slow breaths, then settles herself at her desk, opening the windows. Then she stretches out her magic and her soul, pouring all of it straight into the new body.
The old body slumps, like a puppet with its strings cut. A breeze blows in through the window, and the body dissipates into rusted dirt and autumn leaves and smoke.
Sparrow opens her eyes, staring up at the ceiling.
The blankets are cool against her skin.