08-21-2016, 09:05 AM
It had been a lifetime.
It had been more than a few lifetimes.
She stretched, the bones in her neck cracking and creaking as the flesh tore away from the vines and the thorns that grew tangled among the woods there. She groaned. It was as if the world around her was waking up, and for the first time in an age, she was feeling the blood in her body pounding in her ears. They flicked around her head, and as she drew herself through the brambles, she continued to groan, the cracking of age and an era gone by passes by her, as the flashings of history bring her up to current events. She is overwhelmed by it all as her body is restored to life—movement through her ligaments and atrophy slinking away as the lactic acid once again slid through her muscles, bringing life back to that which was once little more than dead.
She said her Hail Marys as she moved forward, her pale green eyes being shadowed by the tangled mess of hair and mess that had grown and tangled into the foliage around her for all these years. Stepping forward, she pulled her body--bleeding and coming apart at the seams from where the thorns had pulled on her flesh—through the brambles of paths that were by now overgrown. She snorted, a loud obnoxious sound that signaled of her impatience with the world around her. It did not matter that it had all moved on without her. She knew this land. She knew them all. It was as invested into her soul as she was into the trees—she was one with them. And she knew them all. Whether they were coming, going, dead, alive, or yet to come, she knew them all.
This was the blessing and curse of magic. She was never just she. She was them. She was them all, and as her blood spilled on the ground in sacrifice to the Church and all that was Holy, she looked back to see that the paths she was so familiar with had once again opened up, bending around her, pulling away and going before her, preparing the path for her just as Mary’s Son had gone on his way to Golgotha. She crossed her heart and bowed her head, her tail drawing away from the last bits of vine and twig as she steps out into the open--the open sores on her body knitting themselves scars with the help of her blessed blood.
She was old now. There was no denying that.
But she was eternal, and there was no denying that either.
The old Queen, the Great Mother.
What would become of Reagan now?
It had been more than a few lifetimes.
She stretched, the bones in her neck cracking and creaking as the flesh tore away from the vines and the thorns that grew tangled among the woods there. She groaned. It was as if the world around her was waking up, and for the first time in an age, she was feeling the blood in her body pounding in her ears. They flicked around her head, and as she drew herself through the brambles, she continued to groan, the cracking of age and an era gone by passes by her, as the flashings of history bring her up to current events. She is overwhelmed by it all as her body is restored to life—movement through her ligaments and atrophy slinking away as the lactic acid once again slid through her muscles, bringing life back to that which was once little more than dead.
She said her Hail Marys as she moved forward, her pale green eyes being shadowed by the tangled mess of hair and mess that had grown and tangled into the foliage around her for all these years. Stepping forward, she pulled her body--bleeding and coming apart at the seams from where the thorns had pulled on her flesh—through the brambles of paths that were by now overgrown. She snorted, a loud obnoxious sound that signaled of her impatience with the world around her. It did not matter that it had all moved on without her. She knew this land. She knew them all. It was as invested into her soul as she was into the trees—she was one with them. And she knew them all. Whether they were coming, going, dead, alive, or yet to come, she knew them all.
This was the blessing and curse of magic. She was never just she. She was them. She was them all, and as her blood spilled on the ground in sacrifice to the Church and all that was Holy, she looked back to see that the paths she was so familiar with had once again opened up, bending around her, pulling away and going before her, preparing the path for her just as Mary’s Son had gone on his way to Golgotha. She crossed her heart and bowed her head, her tail drawing away from the last bits of vine and twig as she steps out into the open--the open sores on her body knitting themselves scars with the help of her blessed blood.
She was old now. There was no denying that.
But she was eternal, and there was no denying that either.
The old Queen, the Great Mother.
What would become of Reagan now?