The days are endless, cold, one into another just white and gray and evergreen. She has never loved winter but this is the coldest of her life, lonely, empty. The child in her belly is at times the only fire burning against oblivion and it is yet a small flame that barely stirs beneath her ribs. Even when her every moment is altered by it’s presence, she will require more to survive than all the hopes that are wrapped up in the innocent promise of an infant. There are those who have tried to give her comfort but she pushes them back, refuses kindness undeserved.
In the meadow she digs for acorns at the forest’s edge. There are plenty of acorns at home but they are buried deep in the alpine snow and she will find herself with assistance from one of her children or someone else. She cannot tolerate the helpfulness or kindness today, and she has yet to turn on her friends so in this mood she exiles herself from home. The digging is an almost pleasant exertion and the monotony of it turns her thoughts to a base quiet, reward and work and little else. Until she moves on to find a new trove of treasures and has her attention captured by a naked winter-berry heavy with is beautiful crimson fruit.
Kensa draws near the poison shrub, inspecting it absently. Though she reaches out to touch the berries she has no intention of eating a single one. She knows them to be a bitter poison. Still she has always been a tactile creature, eager to touch and know even when she should not. From there her eyes—topaz cabochons—flick to the dark shape of a stranger, a lovely cold thing. Made of winter in the same intangible way that Kensa is made of summer. In spite of all the emptiness that the chestnut has poured into herself she has a fleeting appreciative thought that sticks in her mind and makes her stare too long.
@[Melinoë]
