10-16-2021, 10:38 AM
Crania
She has never seen anything like him.
Not even her mother, with the thick, wood vines trailing down her neck and spine, always blooming.
A tendril of fear snakes through her when he lands her with that strange orange eye, when his response sinks its teeth into the meat of her heart.
(The lesson to be learned here is this: think before you speak, Crania. And something else, too, but she cannot identify the other lesson he teaches her: that some things are not meant to be brought back to life.)
He stands there, seemingly carved out of autumn leaves, and she wonders if he grew from the roots of a tree the same way she had. Had his own mother lovingly tended to him as he’d unfurled beneath the surface of the earth?
He is constructed from the death of all of the things she loves, she recognizes that, but he is beautiful all the same. (Beautiful in the way that all things in nature are beautiful, regardless of what he represents.)
And there is a sharp stab of mourning when he commands the flowers to wilt again, but she thinks she understands. It is not personal, she understands, because his loyalty lies with the autumn while hers lies with all things.
His laugh had burst forth from his mouth like something mocking, but she smiles all the same. “You love the autumn,” she says, an observation rather than a question. Bold of her to assume anything about this stranger, certainly, but there is a certain amount of naivete that comes along with loving things. “The autumn can be so beautiful, too.” Even for her, she who prefers to see things flourish.
Not even her mother, with the thick, wood vines trailing down her neck and spine, always blooming.
A tendril of fear snakes through her when he lands her with that strange orange eye, when his response sinks its teeth into the meat of her heart.
(The lesson to be learned here is this: think before you speak, Crania. And something else, too, but she cannot identify the other lesson he teaches her: that some things are not meant to be brought back to life.)
He stands there, seemingly carved out of autumn leaves, and she wonders if he grew from the roots of a tree the same way she had. Had his own mother lovingly tended to him as he’d unfurled beneath the surface of the earth?
He is constructed from the death of all of the things she loves, she recognizes that, but he is beautiful all the same. (Beautiful in the way that all things in nature are beautiful, regardless of what he represents.)
And there is a sharp stab of mourning when he commands the flowers to wilt again, but she thinks she understands. It is not personal, she understands, because his loyalty lies with the autumn while hers lies with all things.
His laugh had burst forth from his mouth like something mocking, but she smiles all the same. “You love the autumn,” she says, an observation rather than a question. Bold of her to assume anything about this stranger, certainly, but there is a certain amount of naivete that comes along with loving things. “The autumn can be so beautiful, too.” Even for her, she who prefers to see things flourish.
@Etojo