frey—
There’s an errant fluttering in Frey’s chest, stuttering yet persistent. She remembers this feeling. As if dying embers reside in her heart and a strong breeze just passed, kicking up sparks and ash and perhaps a lonely flame. She shies from the hopeful sensation as the wracking embarrassment from before reminds her of who she is: small, quiet, solitary.
“Oh, uh . . .” Frey says in the lingering silence.
It never occurred to her that the seemingly carefree woman would have endless and serious feelings for all that surrounds her. Frey often breaks her life into two weaving parts: abandonment and isolation. The first and perhaps most damning decision involving the little snake was delivered by her mother. Galadriel cleaved Frey from her side without so much as a parting glance. The idea of offering her heart, her love, her vulnerability nearly repulses her.
But there is a sweetness in the air, now—the kind voice of Aeife, her watchful yet easy gaze, the careless mud splattered on her legs—and Frey feels her muscles loosen just a bit. She turns her head to catch more of the druid with her good eye, and even offers a small smile.
“Aeife,” Frey answers back, testing the name on her tongue before offering her own. “My name is Frey,” she pauses now, “and I don’t know what I was born from.” She cocks her head—looking particularly serpentine as she does—then drops her gaze to the ground.
“I’ve never tried to listen to everything,” Frey admits, allowing her smile to lengthen just a tad. “What do you think they’re saying . . . when they have no words for you?” She’s desperate to know, to discover what countless tiny yet important voices sound like. The loneliness engrained in her pangs now, tearing through her entire body like the rush of an icy river. Once again she draws her chin in, embarrassed by the simplest display of curiosity.
“Oh, uh . . .” Frey says in the lingering silence.
It never occurred to her that the seemingly carefree woman would have endless and serious feelings for all that surrounds her. Frey often breaks her life into two weaving parts: abandonment and isolation. The first and perhaps most damning decision involving the little snake was delivered by her mother. Galadriel cleaved Frey from her side without so much as a parting glance. The idea of offering her heart, her love, her vulnerability nearly repulses her.
But there is a sweetness in the air, now—the kind voice of Aeife, her watchful yet easy gaze, the careless mud splattered on her legs—and Frey feels her muscles loosen just a bit. She turns her head to catch more of the druid with her good eye, and even offers a small smile.
“Aeife,” Frey answers back, testing the name on her tongue before offering her own. “My name is Frey,” she pauses now, “and I don’t know what I was born from.” She cocks her head—looking particularly serpentine as she does—then drops her gaze to the ground.
“I’ve never tried to listen to everything,” Frey admits, allowing her smile to lengthen just a tad. “What do you think they’re saying . . . when they have no words for you?” She’s desperate to know, to discover what countless tiny yet important voices sound like. The loneliness engrained in her pangs now, tearing through her entire body like the rush of an icy river. Once again she draws her chin in, embarrassed by the simplest display of curiosity.
@Aeife