11-05-2016, 02:38 AM
It blows over like all storms do; like winter thaws.
She was raised to appreciate the hills and valleys of life – of nature. And the Mother, Vineine had assured her, was responsible for all of them. For the black-fleshed demons who had violated, forever, the soft land of her babyhood to the big grey and his toothless trespass. Once, her mother had struggled with the many things that seemed so antithetical to the Goddess – death, undone; the strange beings that manipulated the fabric of her physics and chemistry, so much so that they seemed separate from her hand.
Until, one day, she had laboured over the ransacked nest of a cottontail and the Mother did something she had not thought possible (or, had thought possible, but improbable – against the laws of Her nature; to live and let die). She plucked the soul from the body of a fading kit and sent it hurtling through her body, into the churning lair of her womb and merged it carefully with the meat and spirit of her daughter. In that moment, she realized that the Mother works in strange ways, beholden to no rules, at all.
So Longear came to be, glancing over her shoulder to where her daughters tip-toed from their hiding place to return to her side – tittering away to each other in a language all of their own.
Came to stand, half-responsible for their being – nature, at its base function, but utterly mesmerizing all the same.
Came to be without her mother, and yet, still standing.
Hills and valleys.
“I will join in visiting other lands, if you’ll have me,” she smiles, her mother’s smile, “it probably needs not be said, I am simply not a fighter. The Mother willing, I will be reunited with my other soul soon, and trust me, she is not, either.” It is cowardice at an instinctual level – self-preservation, to put a kinder name on it. “I come from a line of diplomatic women; I may have other uses in times of… tension, but I’d rather not call on the specter just now.”
To be sure, she was not made to be a fighter, but clandestinity is not a stretch.
She was raised to appreciate the hills and valleys of life – of nature. And the Mother, Vineine had assured her, was responsible for all of them. For the black-fleshed demons who had violated, forever, the soft land of her babyhood to the big grey and his toothless trespass. Once, her mother had struggled with the many things that seemed so antithetical to the Goddess – death, undone; the strange beings that manipulated the fabric of her physics and chemistry, so much so that they seemed separate from her hand.
Until, one day, she had laboured over the ransacked nest of a cottontail and the Mother did something she had not thought possible (or, had thought possible, but improbable – against the laws of Her nature; to live and let die). She plucked the soul from the body of a fading kit and sent it hurtling through her body, into the churning lair of her womb and merged it carefully with the meat and spirit of her daughter. In that moment, she realized that the Mother works in strange ways, beholden to no rules, at all.
So Longear came to be, glancing over her shoulder to where her daughters tip-toed from their hiding place to return to her side – tittering away to each other in a language all of their own.
Came to stand, half-responsible for their being – nature, at its base function, but utterly mesmerizing all the same.
Came to be without her mother, and yet, still standing.
Hills and valleys.
“I will join in visiting other lands, if you’ll have me,” she smiles, her mother’s smile, “it probably needs not be said, I am simply not a fighter. The Mother willing, I will be reunited with my other soul soon, and trust me, she is not, either.” It is cowardice at an instinctual level – self-preservation, to put a kinder name on it. “I come from a line of diplomatic women; I may have other uses in times of… tension, but I’d rather not call on the specter just now.”
To be sure, she was not made to be a fighter, but clandestinity is not a stretch.
“My heart has joined the Thousand,
for my friend stopped running today.”