06-29-2016, 04:23 PM
oh, where do we begin? the rubble or our sins?
She’s been lazy - no, they’ve both been lazy. Indulgent. Lost in each other like two over-the-moon little yearlings, when the truth is that they’ve done and lived enough for five lifetimes. Yael stretches her wings today, leaving their tree and the world they’ve created beneath its boughs. B’kanna ran on and on and on while they tucked themselves away, and it leaves the golden woman with an uneasy feelings - as if they didn’t quite belong here anymore. They were relics of an old world, and all their friends were either dead or gone. It’s hard to live that way. Your days become a blur, blending together, especially when her children are off on their own, and there is no trouble knocking at their door.
She knows of the newcomer, Vidar, and the goings-on by the dinosaur bones. She’s brought back a new recruit, and reunited with Kark. Yael knows, and yet she does not “know” them anymore. Eliora is all grown up, and Qatar looks more like his sire every day. Shahrizai and Ilka are lovers like herself and Vanquish, and yet she could not describe the look in their eyes when they gaze on each other. And what of Feyre, and their various adopted children? Munroe, Kabechet, Volcan, Siloam - or Kratos? Her heart does not sit well in her breast, to feel like a stranger to their small contingent. And so she soars low over the sands, traversing back and forth over the miles of unmarked dunes and hidden oases, and when she finds them, she sends them a brief, but sincere message. An apology. An invitation to come and chat, if they like.
What’s important is that they know she’s still here. As she’s always promised to be.
Yael skims low over reeds and lands at the edge of a large pool of water. She holds her wings aloft, allowing air to circulate in and around her body - for the day is warm (it is winter, so the weather is far more bearable to the average horse), and her activity has made her sweat. The consort decides to wait patiently, to see if anyone will decide to come. In typical Yael fashion, she made no commands and her invitation was not full of pleading. It would be a pleasant surprise, she thinks, if more than one of them showed. And if more than three came? Why, she might even call it a party.
She knows of the newcomer, Vidar, and the goings-on by the dinosaur bones. She’s brought back a new recruit, and reunited with Kark. Yael knows, and yet she does not “know” them anymore. Eliora is all grown up, and Qatar looks more like his sire every day. Shahrizai and Ilka are lovers like herself and Vanquish, and yet she could not describe the look in their eyes when they gaze on each other. And what of Feyre, and their various adopted children? Munroe, Kabechet, Volcan, Siloam - or Kratos? Her heart does not sit well in her breast, to feel like a stranger to their small contingent. And so she soars low over the sands, traversing back and forth over the miles of unmarked dunes and hidden oases, and when she finds them, she sends them a brief, but sincere message. An apology. An invitation to come and chat, if they like.
What’s important is that they know she’s still here. As she’s always promised to be.
Yael skims low over reeds and lands at the edge of a large pool of water. She holds her wings aloft, allowing air to circulate in and around her body - for the day is warm (it is winter, so the weather is far more bearable to the average horse), and her activity has made her sweat. The consort decides to wait patiently, to see if anyone will decide to come. In typical Yael fashion, she made no commands and her invitation was not full of pleading. It would be a pleasant surprise, she thinks, if more than one of them showed. And if more than three came? Why, she might even call it a party.
YAEL
mother, queen, magician