12-12-2021, 07:45 PM
with rushing thread of brazen spindles.
Ischia had been swallowed up by the sea.
Plunged into the ocean that had so tenderly kissed its shores.
It had happened so suddenly, without warning, and the girls had so narrowly been saved from the water by their mother.
And now.
And now they wander and the third daughter has half a mind to return to Pangea, to find the father they had left behind. But the wolf calls her a fool and he is not the first.
Instead, she goes to the common lands. She has lost track of the sisters, her sisters, and instead strikes out alone. She returns to the edge of the river where she had encountered the fury of a stranger, his anger leeching the strength out of her, dimming the vibrant glow of the love that coursed through her. (How could love thrive in the face of so much hate?)
But there is no one there at the river’s edge as she sinks toward it. The sun shines brilliant overhead and, as always, all things are haloed in vivid white light (a defect of the eyes rather than any real, tangible thing).
The wolf watches as she smiles quietly to herself, exchanging a quick glance with the shadow-thing before she shifts into the cupid that lurks beneath the surface of her skin. And she is fully grown now, an adult by all standards, but there is inescapable youth in the soft face, the downy wings, the curls of her mane.
The wolf rolls its eyes as she descends into the cool water, shivering with delight.
Plunged into the ocean that had so tenderly kissed its shores.
It had happened so suddenly, without warning, and the girls had so narrowly been saved from the water by their mother.
And now.
And now they wander and the third daughter has half a mind to return to Pangea, to find the father they had left behind. But the wolf calls her a fool and he is not the first.
Instead, she goes to the common lands. She has lost track of the sisters, her sisters, and instead strikes out alone. She returns to the edge of the river where she had encountered the fury of a stranger, his anger leeching the strength out of her, dimming the vibrant glow of the love that coursed through her. (How could love thrive in the face of so much hate?)
But there is no one there at the river’s edge as she sinks toward it. The sun shines brilliant overhead and, as always, all things are haloed in vivid white light (a defect of the eyes rather than any real, tangible thing).
The wolf watches as she smiles quietly to herself, exchanging a quick glance with the shadow-thing before she shifts into the cupid that lurks beneath the surface of her skin. And she is fully grown now, an adult by all standards, but there is inescapable youth in the soft face, the downy wings, the curls of her mane.
The wolf rolls its eyes as she descends into the cool water, shivering with delight.
