08-16-2021, 12:09 AM
(This post was last modified: 08-16-2021, 12:10 AM by Tove. Edited 1 time in total.)
for anyone apart of the group here eheheheheh
where was her mother?
( which one? )
not that it might matter, anymore, of course. she'd had so many names, all of them spoken softly, if ever at all. tove had never known which ones to use, so instead, she'd listen always to the songs of her mother's blood that were sung to her. by the end of what little time they'd shared, though, she'd lost them all. had lost that mother to the frostfever; had lost that voice.
( what of the other? )
there hadn't been another, had there? not one that she would've deigned to call mother. not again. but the one she had known had been dying even before she'd been claimed by that after of all ever-afters, hadn't she? dying, ever since she'd been born a hedge-whelp. dying with each heartbeat that went by without a thought of her at all, as she drifted further and farther from her side, if only to come into her own.
now she was here – gone from the sjáandi that had slipped from her skin and bones, so far from her now that they might only meet again after that last gasp.
but her lungs bellow, creaking with air, scenting a claim that she might border at; and she's high-stepping her way through this snows-drowned beauty; slow, of course, with a mind still webbed with halfsleep. the sun is a thrumming thing; too-ripe, too-bright, limning it all. always would she feel its ancient, giving pulse, and how it could trap life and light just as easily as it could take it all away.
foolish girl. lost girl. she looks up, bleary; hoping that these lights will freeze in these skies, come night.
( which one? )
not that it might matter, anymore, of course. she'd had so many names, all of them spoken softly, if ever at all. tove had never known which ones to use, so instead, she'd listen always to the songs of her mother's blood that were sung to her. by the end of what little time they'd shared, though, she'd lost them all. had lost that mother to the frostfever; had lost that voice.
( what of the other? )
there hadn't been another, had there? not one that she would've deigned to call mother. not again. but the one she had known had been dying even before she'd been claimed by that after of all ever-afters, hadn't she? dying, ever since she'd been born a hedge-whelp. dying with each heartbeat that went by without a thought of her at all, as she drifted further and farther from her side, if only to come into her own.
now she was here – gone from the sjáandi that had slipped from her skin and bones, so far from her now that they might only meet again after that last gasp.
but her lungs bellow, creaking with air, scenting a claim that she might border at; and she's high-stepping her way through this snows-drowned beauty; slow, of course, with a mind still webbed with halfsleep. the sun is a thrumming thing; too-ripe, too-bright, limning it all. always would she feel its ancient, giving pulse, and how it could trap life and light just as easily as it could take it all away.
foolish girl. lost girl. she looks up, bleary; hoping that these lights will freeze in these skies, come night.
the staff team luvs u