01-14-2016, 06:11 PM
‘And stars, in their orbits, shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon, 'mid planets her slaves
Herself in the Heavens, her beam on the waves.’
Everything bows to it. Everything weathers under it.
She brings everything to the ground, in in the end, the Mother does.
But until that day, there is resiliency in everything she fashions. Out of flesh or bark or thick exoskeleton. They are made to move onward; their hearts and minds are impossibly elastic. They are meant to seek constantly. Ceaselessly.
She had surrendered to this wander full-throatedly as a young woman. Experiencing the machinations and travails of nature as she thought they were meant to be. She had loved, untried and messy. She had laboured, equally as unproven, as cold rain met her heated hips and thighs. She had learned all she could, of the seasons and the seeds.
She had not been running from anything. Not truly. It had felt a bit like it at the time, as if she were rebelling. When he left her life, his moonlit touches and starry laughter, she had caught the blow in her gut and held it there to remind her. Remind her of him, of course (though she has a much more solid token of their tryst to rely on for that), and of the slings and arrows of life. Nature is not kind. Not always.
It had taken time to shake loose the threads of wanderlust that divided her mind and path. (She does not believe in fate, or predestination; but she was meant to be dirtied by the jungle at least once more in her lifetime. She owed it to herself, and her mother. For how long? She can only say that she is content and galvanized, in ways that she has never been before.) Her life has never been sorrowful, only in flux. The times she spent in the Gates were growing pains. Beautiful and needed, but transitory.
The rosy mare watches a young, lean rabbit nibble at grass around the stalks of clustered, yellow agrimony. Every now and then, the animal stands on its hind feet and looks towards her, sniffing the air. It stays near, and when it disappears behind a shrub or into a patch of tall brome, she whinnies out and it lopes back, reprimanded. Long, early shadows spread between the glint of dew; the chorus of thrills and waking wings fill the forest border. She can concede to this only when it is quiet, as it is, because she cannot ask the rabbit to reject her duality anymore than she can ask the sun to abate its ascent.
The mare moves towards the animal, she drops her head and lips its forehead playfully, ruffling its long ears. Its nose wriggles, as it always does, and it sqirms from her and hops away, then leaps and twists its body in air heedlessly. She has seen this before, in the wild population, but she couldn’t know for sure what it meant until she had been told: excitement and joy. She laughs and shakes her head. Then the hushed scrape of hooves on firm soil catches her in surprise and she wonders in a moment of panic whether or not to lash out in defense of her young.
But the rabbit is gone, and a buckskin filly touches her mother’s ribs, her tail, like that of a rabbit, held upright. Vineine breathes in, but her lungs just ache for more as she turns to see what had spooked her so.
A mare, dark grey. She crosses the meadow, dotted with asters and bearberries and young sun, giving herself a comfortable breadth and smiles. She smiles as natural as the wildflower heads follow the sun. “Hello. I’m Vineine. From the Amazons.” She tilts her head, those observant gold-brown eyes keeping soft in their probe for information. She is windblown, and there is a restlessness in the crooks of her well-traveled body. Or maybe, it is restlessness grown weary.
magic-borne daughter of Prague and Elladora
- amazonian and mother -
Of the brighter, cold moon, 'mid planets her slaves
Herself in the Heavens, her beam on the waves.’
Everything bows to it. Everything weathers under it.
She brings everything to the ground, in in the end, the Mother does.
But until that day, there is resiliency in everything she fashions. Out of flesh or bark or thick exoskeleton. They are made to move onward; their hearts and minds are impossibly elastic. They are meant to seek constantly. Ceaselessly.
She had surrendered to this wander full-throatedly as a young woman. Experiencing the machinations and travails of nature as she thought they were meant to be. She had loved, untried and messy. She had laboured, equally as unproven, as cold rain met her heated hips and thighs. She had learned all she could, of the seasons and the seeds.
She had not been running from anything. Not truly. It had felt a bit like it at the time, as if she were rebelling. When he left her life, his moonlit touches and starry laughter, she had caught the blow in her gut and held it there to remind her. Remind her of him, of course (though she has a much more solid token of their tryst to rely on for that), and of the slings and arrows of life. Nature is not kind. Not always.
It had taken time to shake loose the threads of wanderlust that divided her mind and path. (She does not believe in fate, or predestination; but she was meant to be dirtied by the jungle at least once more in her lifetime. She owed it to herself, and her mother. For how long? She can only say that she is content and galvanized, in ways that she has never been before.) Her life has never been sorrowful, only in flux. The times she spent in the Gates were growing pains. Beautiful and needed, but transitory.
The rosy mare watches a young, lean rabbit nibble at grass around the stalks of clustered, yellow agrimony. Every now and then, the animal stands on its hind feet and looks towards her, sniffing the air. It stays near, and when it disappears behind a shrub or into a patch of tall brome, she whinnies out and it lopes back, reprimanded. Long, early shadows spread between the glint of dew; the chorus of thrills and waking wings fill the forest border. She can concede to this only when it is quiet, as it is, because she cannot ask the rabbit to reject her duality anymore than she can ask the sun to abate its ascent.
The mare moves towards the animal, she drops her head and lips its forehead playfully, ruffling its long ears. Its nose wriggles, as it always does, and it sqirms from her and hops away, then leaps and twists its body in air heedlessly. She has seen this before, in the wild population, but she couldn’t know for sure what it meant until she had been told: excitement and joy. She laughs and shakes her head. Then the hushed scrape of hooves on firm soil catches her in surprise and she wonders in a moment of panic whether or not to lash out in defense of her young.
But the rabbit is gone, and a buckskin filly touches her mother’s ribs, her tail, like that of a rabbit, held upright. Vineine breathes in, but her lungs just ache for more as she turns to see what had spooked her so.
A mare, dark grey. She crosses the meadow, dotted with asters and bearberries and young sun, giving herself a comfortable breadth and smiles. She smiles as natural as the wildflower heads follow the sun. “Hello. I’m Vineine. From the Amazons.” She tilts her head, those observant gold-brown eyes keeping soft in their probe for information. She is windblown, and there is a restlessness in the crooks of her well-traveled body. Or maybe, it is restlessness grown weary.
- amazonian and mother -
not sure if you were open to kingdoms, so i shall try :] sorry for the longness.