02-25-2016, 03:55 PM
She watches them go ahead of her, all the while, aware of the bright eyes, blinking like great, observant moons. The tawny coat and the pattern of dark rosettes, like dapples of dark and she is reminded of all she does to protect her daughter. When Lagertha tells them of the nature of this beast, she turns her eyes to it, inspects of relaxes curl of its tail and the deep hum of its breath.
She is scared and she is not.
Its expectation and its penalty ring warning bells down her spine.
Its expectations and its penalty make her steeled and content.
She closes her eyes. She finds resolves down in those nooks and crannies, where once she thought she had found home but had known it had not been real. It was a ‘now’. A present, in the sense that she did not see her future in that sway of soft green grass and the sharp trill of passerines. It had been kind.
But nature is not kind.
When it is her turn, she moves towards something she should spook from like a held spring. Something, that for a long, long time, she had kept from. Made space and more space – made love and made life in that space – and she wonders if it is disappointed. But of course, nature is not inevitable or preordained, either. She was meant for this place once before, when in its understory she tumbled from her mother. She was not meant for this place again until she stepped foot in it, and maybe not even then.
But she is scared of what the spirit can see. It blinks at her with bright hazel eyes and it breathes, a deep rumble from its predator’s lungs. “To the Jungle, I swear my service, to the best of my ability. To this kingdom, I swear my body and my blood. To my Sisters, I swear my loyalty and love, for all the days of my life.” Her voice is soft and thoughtful, it always it. ‘Welcome back, sister. Daughter and mother,’ its whisper, a strange rush in her head, through which she can hear the sharp teeth and soft pawing all at once.
She bends down to her level, as if commanded and feels the pressure of her paw, the possibility of her claws though they are kept safely sheathed.
Vineine feels her face tingle, and down the bridge of her nose green vines begin to tangle and take shape – in between her eyes on her forehead, a waxing moon, her two points facing upward towards her ears, and then a full circle tangled and adorned with a red passion flowers in the center, and then pointing down towards her nostrils, a waning moon.
The maiden, the mother, and the crone.
Vineine
amazonian & mother
She is scared and she is not.
Its expectation and its penalty ring warning bells down her spine.
Its expectations and its penalty make her steeled and content.
She closes her eyes. She finds resolves down in those nooks and crannies, where once she thought she had found home but had known it had not been real. It was a ‘now’. A present, in the sense that she did not see her future in that sway of soft green grass and the sharp trill of passerines. It had been kind.
But nature is not kind.
When it is her turn, she moves towards something she should spook from like a held spring. Something, that for a long, long time, she had kept from. Made space and more space – made love and made life in that space – and she wonders if it is disappointed. But of course, nature is not inevitable or preordained, either. She was meant for this place once before, when in its understory she tumbled from her mother. She was not meant for this place again until she stepped foot in it, and maybe not even then.
But she is scared of what the spirit can see. It blinks at her with bright hazel eyes and it breathes, a deep rumble from its predator’s lungs. “To the Jungle, I swear my service, to the best of my ability. To this kingdom, I swear my body and my blood. To my Sisters, I swear my loyalty and love, for all the days of my life.” Her voice is soft and thoughtful, it always it. ‘Welcome back, sister. Daughter and mother,’ its whisper, a strange rush in her head, through which she can hear the sharp teeth and soft pawing all at once.
She bends down to her level, as if commanded and feels the pressure of her paw, the possibility of her claws though they are kept safely sheathed.
Vineine feels her face tingle, and down the bridge of her nose green vines begin to tangle and take shape – in between her eyes on her forehead, a waxing moon, her two points facing upward towards her ears, and then a full circle tangled and adorned with a red passion flowers in the center, and then pointing down towards her nostrils, a waning moon.
The maiden, the mother, and the crone.
amazonian & mother