09-21-2021, 07:38 PM
The soft pattering of rain draws Frey’s lime gaze up to the dark canopy above. She breathes out, watching the air fog up and away from her face. She is thinking, thinking so deeply, about the world that always seems to wash away around her; and it feels as if there is some epic truth in those thoughts, some pillar of personality to bear the weight of how she lives for the rest of her days.
How losing her mother might shape her forever, clip the tapestry weaving carefully within her, a piece of a beautiful pattern to be left unfinished until her last breath.
Frey strings Hadrien’s chestnut and white into her story, knitting the splash of his face like a ghost (like she might never see him again after this, like he might only linger as some bodily instinct to ask questions). The filly stands ethereally still, focusing on that DNA she suddenly wishes she could change.
“I don’t know where mine went, either.”
There’s a tightness that lingers in Frey’s chest at the admittance, her first true sensation of regret. A single tear blinks out of her unseeing eye as she feels her body trembling with cold and the desperate need to take her words back.
She didn’t want her abandonment to be real, didn’t want her own words to be the ones that finally brought it into reality. Even the den mothers in all their maternal-care didn’t dare mention Galadriel, as if they possess some supernatural sense of exactly what each lost child needs, even if it is what they need is more tribulation.
Frey sucks in a breath broken by chattering teeth.
“It’s cold in the rain, this deep in the Forest,” she admits as if her words were not already jumbled by the chilling rain and the damp air.
“Where are you going?” Frey asks.
How losing her mother might shape her forever, clip the tapestry weaving carefully within her, a piece of a beautiful pattern to be left unfinished until her last breath.
Frey strings Hadrien’s chestnut and white into her story, knitting the splash of his face like a ghost (like she might never see him again after this, like he might only linger as some bodily instinct to ask questions). The filly stands ethereally still, focusing on that DNA she suddenly wishes she could change.
“I don’t know where mine went, either.”
There’s a tightness that lingers in Frey’s chest at the admittance, her first true sensation of regret. A single tear blinks out of her unseeing eye as she feels her body trembling with cold and the desperate need to take her words back.
She didn’t want her abandonment to be real, didn’t want her own words to be the ones that finally brought it into reality. Even the den mothers in all their maternal-care didn’t dare mention Galadriel, as if they possess some supernatural sense of exactly what each lost child needs, even if it is what they need is more tribulation.
Frey sucks in a breath broken by chattering teeth.
“It’s cold in the rain, this deep in the Forest,” she admits as if her words were not already jumbled by the chilling rain and the damp air.
“Where are you going?” Frey asks.