[private] come whichever hell or high water; brunhilde

[brunhilde]

i'm a geyser, feel it bubbling from below
hear it call, hear it call, hear it call to me, constantly

Like a perfectly flat sheet of paper balled into an angry fist, Brunhilde crumples. She is an autumn leaf to her mother’s welcoming forest floor, and she falls. She falls and falls into those warm arms of Kensa, of the one to never leave her behind.

No matter how she turns her back on Hyaline, how cold she can be in some misguided way to gain her father’s approval, how she may bristle in fear-turned-aggression--her mother never leaves her. Brunhilde knows now how this love between them knows no bounds, how even in her mother’s absence she only released her out of love (how it was not much of an absence or an intentional wound).

This reality with a traitorous boy sucking her dry tells her of the twisted love of a mother.

Of how a mother can love so much it turns to hate and even then she will do what is right.

“Help,” she manages to whisper, then leans into Kensa as she whisks her into the shadows of the trees. She would cry if she knew what to feel, if she could feel anything besides the dull hunger in the pit of her stomach. She would cry if she could see the jewel she was as a child standing alongside the knotted tangles of her mane and tail. Her eyes glimmer with a flash (anger? pain? fear?), but she hardly has the energy to fuel its light.

Her mother’s side is the only thing that grounds her, even when she brushes stone and vine to step into the cave.

“I don’t know what to do.”

and hear the harmony only when it's harming me
it's not real, it's not real, it's not real enough

Brunhilde

@[Kensa]