Willow

The first time Willow went to a magician, she stumbled most ungracefully into his arms. Literally. Her knees knocked together with every few steps, the effort of walking correctly too much for her. Functioning was nearly impossible. The empty space between her ribs ate away at her ability to move, speak, do anything but collapse into herself and disintigrate. 

 

Before magic, Willow's eyes were wide as oceans, green as valleys, and absorbant as the crusty old sponge next to her rusty old sink. She was open, impressionable. She wanted to feel. She lived with her heart. She put faith in what that pulsing, impulsive little organ told her, because that was what she knew. Naivety was a word she often heard, but never quite understood the meaning of.