for every tyrant, a tear for the vulnerable
in every lost soul, the bones of a miracle
The Primarch does not expect her daughter to fly into her embrace but she is somehow ready for it, just as she was ready for the girl to pour all of her anger and hurt out. Kensa wraps her neck over Brunhilde, draws her familiar scent from the tangle of her mane and the rise of her withers. Remembering the first time she’d touched her, breathed her in, tucked her into her side to nurse. Brunhilde doesn’t want to hear any of that, Kensa knows, she’d been a girl once too.
For Kensa childhood had been simple, in retrospect. With four mothers to smother and discipline her. Two fathers to indulge her and look on her with that confused, loving sorrow of men with beautiful, precocious, reckless daughters. Kensa alone could bestow all the love of six parents on each of her children and still have a cup overflowing but she had still failed Brunhilde. Not intentionally, not in a way she would ever fail any of her other young (though she would certainly fail each of them somehow), but she had not been the mother that this girl needed. In Brunhilde’s youth she had been weak and foolish, grieving the loss of the girls father and the loss of her own illusions...all while simmering with rage and wearing a smile.
Elation is quickly absorbed by a sad ache as Brunhilde admits she misses Kensa in turn and then says in a soft small way (how can this child break her heart so effortlessly?) that Loess is lonely. Butterflies settle, their delicate wings hypnotic, but Kensa cannot close her eyes on them as the foolish things, drawn by some magic in her daughter, wait to follow her. To dance or burn. Carefully Kensa says, “Hyaline is lonely sometimes too.” She rearranges a few tendrils of the girls mane, a mothers absent loving gesture. “Pangea as well, I’m sure.”
We are all lonely darling, but we are here.
@[brunhilde]
