you're my tragedy... noori

[Noori]

Most days, most days stay the sole same
Please stay, for this fear it will not die
Down low, down amongst the thorn rows
Weeds grow, through the lilies and the vines

Three gift-laden wise men bowed low to the messiah once upon a time, submitting to his majesty. And while Noori may not be a god, she can relate to the infant. King Eight of Magic, King Sinder of Silence, and King Trekk of heartbreak. Each brought her gifts, each danced her dance once upon a time. Eight with his prowess and playful poisons; Sinder with his lustful gazes and erotic words; Trekk with his devotion and heartfelt promises. To each man she returned the same, and to each man she birthed a child.

To Trekk, however, she only returned.

Takei, her son of normality. No ivy or wolves or rain belonged to him; in fact, he possessed nothing. Noori was no mother, not to a son she did not want or care for. Throughout the whole pregnancy she had felt empty; Mother Spring had vast chambers for her young, and the tiny boy barely took up a quarter of her rooms.

She tries not to remember any of that though; of Nihlus and Daemron and Cerva and especially Takei. The memories are too sweet, too delectable for her bitter, sap-coated tongue. She prefers to be aloof, to avoid and ignore and live in the background. Even when she took three suitors, she held no grand role in the scheme of things. She started no wars and finished no lives, except perhaps her own. Where once she strived to swell and consume and grow almighty, Noori now hums delicately in the veins of Beqanna.

How he finds her, she shall forever be unsure. Her arrival to the Dale was nearly unnoticed, under the radar save for a sexually tense meeting with the King. She regrets not pursuing him; but the land simply enraptured her. Here, the Spring seemed ceaseless, unlike the acridity of the Deserts and the dampness of the Valley. The vegetation responds to her without her conscious attempts to control them; here, she simply is. And here, she shall always simply be.

Until he arrives.

She’s wandering when he halts next to the tree, shivering awfully and sniveling pitifully. The cold of winter is perhaps the one downfall of her new home: it saps her strength. Yes, the snow melts slowly before her lovely white limbs; but she is ill. And perhaps this explains why she did not avoid his comforting, distant figure. Instead, she only hobbles closer.

“Trekk?” She’s nearly to him, though the falling snow nearly blinds her, and dims her luminous green eyes. “Is that you?”

noori