09-30-2021, 05:11 AM
(This post was last modified: 10-05-2021, 09:00 PM by Riannon. Edited 1 time in total.)
[narrow width=800]how could he help, indeed? with the way the aforementioned pair had promptly forged into the very lands she sought to claim – had claimed, as she so adamantly declared ( whether asked or no ) – it wouldn't come as a surprise if they two took a liking to where they laid their heads and sent her from her mountains. it didn't mean that the thought sat well with her, though; snout crinkling in part because of her blood upon her tongue, which she dashed away with a swipe of her wrist to chin, smear left behind and all. only when what so often came to mind did so now again did she turn to him in reply:
"keep an eye on the world, if you are able, for my children."
whose eye was of no matter to her, whether it be his, or those who kept his company and he theirs. but without the little last-loves of her heart, she was unmoored; groundless, riddled, fraying at the edges and pirouetting on the delicious precipice of beckoning peril. unreminded of all that was above and below her that had not, try as tundrian gods might, made her into who she had yet to become. return to. without her sons and daughters, born out of a blue shadow and a wry thought of the only male she had ever truly, unendingly loved, she ... had begun to reckon that the edge of the abyss looked inviting. she had become bleary-eyed, wandering without a tether, without and echo to draw her to wherever home was. or wasn't. she didn't know.
she didn't know.
if the star-made male really wanted to help her, then he would find a cut in the world and bring her spirit to her old bones and let her haunt again the earth she had once reigned; the lilypond and that throne of bluegleam roots; the patrons and pilgrims and priestesses of the dark wood that the star of her dawn had once been of. her laugh is harsh, hot, short, and angry; aėrith knows that she can not ever return. can only be thankful for what her ( his, really ) tundrian gods have given her in place of a father that would have, should have been theirs to know and call and that she should have —
"eirlysï, asriel. asamir, aisling. ásný, aulis. mine, all," a shrike, drawing nearer to him once more, brow drawn low and dark and covetous. "i have not found them. not yet. but if they have found joy wherever they have been found, or ... know a mother where they once have not, then, i ..." then she would let them be. let them live, and know what it meant to make a home in the hearts of others.
even if they were truly all she had left, other than some court come-again dream; a place where they would be welcomed, always welcomed, if they did not think it right at her side.
a fool's dream, it seemed.[/narrow]
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