What Separates The Strong

The lush green brushed against Revian, forcing him to snap his eyes open with frightful indignation. 

There was nothing but the morning breeze and his own body, tired from the day before—or so it should've been.

'My hand, it's smaller,' he thought to himself, looking down at his small, younger torso. His clothes were swapped, embroidery stitched onto his white, Grecian garments while his collar hung over his neck like a snug scarf. It extended further, reaching down to his waist to connect back to the other side. 

"It's not so bad now that you look at it, is it?" a voice interjected, forcing him to look up at the one who'd been carrying his head in their legs. 

Her hair stretched to her lower back, so pale white that one could've mistaken it for snow. On the other hand, her face was hardened through straight and cross-hatched scars, though certain qualities persisted such as the blush in her cheeks.