She isn’t afraid of the night.
She smiles, instead, whenever the last veins of sunlight gently come to rest behind the mountains. She likes the way the dark can hold her, how it could hug the contours of her body so completely - envelop her. It reminds her of home, of a childhood spent sidled up against her mother’s breast. She had never been as safe as in those moments, and so when the wolves howl love songs for the moon, Eilidh listens without her body quaking, and drinks the melody like wine.
Moselle, in so many different ways, had been her light in the darkness, too.
(“This place is beautiful and I didn’t know this part of the meadow was here.”)
So, when he speaks out from behind the gentle slope of her hips she doesn’t falter.
“It is, isn’t it?”
Or, rather, it is now.
Back then it felt quite different - when the rain nearly drowned her, and the ground was slick with mud and blood, and sorrow.
Eilidh’s dark eyes are still drawn up toward the stars, combing the constellations. She needs a moment longer, takes it, draws the early morning air, fresh with dew, into her lungs. She says goodbye, again. And then, when at last she turns to face him she wears a cordial half-smile on her face. It’s true that the air between their bodies is ripe with secrets, but she doesn’t mind the bright, albeit clumsy, encounter.
She’s done enough dwelling to last a lifetime.
She’s unexpectedly pleased to find that he’s beautiful, too (because who doesn’t like to look upon a pretty face?), with colours that brought him forward in the dark. She finds his eyes and thinks, fleetingly, that they look kind.
“My mother,” she offers solemnly when she has finished taking him in, gesturing gently toward the dirt and wildflowers and addressing the obvious question lingering in the back of his mind. She is about to ask him why he’s dripping wet, but the abrupt locomotion of the next guest’s arrival steals the words right off her tongue.
They look similar - not the same, but there are hints here and there hidden in the lines of their bodies that suggests a relationship; one confirms it when he speaks. The newest arrival looks awkward and uncomfortable at her discovery - as though he is sorry to be there. And while she can see that he is, Eilidh has never had time for grudges. She offers a second, cordial half-smile, and moves a step forward in the brothers’ direction.
“No,” she says, gently, with a softness in her eyes that some could call weak,
“It’s nice to have company. I’ve been alone for so long.”
Too blunt a truth for strangers, perhaps, but hers all the same.
“I’m Eilidh.”
@abysm @Rhaegor
She smiles, instead, whenever the last veins of sunlight gently come to rest behind the mountains. She likes the way the dark can hold her, how it could hug the contours of her body so completely - envelop her. It reminds her of home, of a childhood spent sidled up against her mother’s breast. She had never been as safe as in those moments, and so when the wolves howl love songs for the moon, Eilidh listens without her body quaking, and drinks the melody like wine.
Moselle, in so many different ways, had been her light in the darkness, too.
(“This place is beautiful and I didn’t know this part of the meadow was here.”)
So, when he speaks out from behind the gentle slope of her hips she doesn’t falter.
“It is, isn’t it?”
Or, rather, it is now.
Back then it felt quite different - when the rain nearly drowned her, and the ground was slick with mud and blood, and sorrow.
Eilidh’s dark eyes are still drawn up toward the stars, combing the constellations. She needs a moment longer, takes it, draws the early morning air, fresh with dew, into her lungs. She says goodbye, again. And then, when at last she turns to face him she wears a cordial half-smile on her face. It’s true that the air between their bodies is ripe with secrets, but she doesn’t mind the bright, albeit clumsy, encounter.
She’s done enough dwelling to last a lifetime.
She’s unexpectedly pleased to find that he’s beautiful, too (because who doesn’t like to look upon a pretty face?), with colours that brought him forward in the dark. She finds his eyes and thinks, fleetingly, that they look kind.
“My mother,” she offers solemnly when she has finished taking him in, gesturing gently toward the dirt and wildflowers and addressing the obvious question lingering in the back of his mind. She is about to ask him why he’s dripping wet, but the abrupt locomotion of the next guest’s arrival steals the words right off her tongue.
They look similar - not the same, but there are hints here and there hidden in the lines of their bodies that suggests a relationship; one confirms it when he speaks. The newest arrival looks awkward and uncomfortable at her discovery - as though he is sorry to be there. And while she can see that he is, Eilidh has never had time for grudges. She offers a second, cordial half-smile, and moves a step forward in the brothers’ direction.
“No,” she says, gently, with a softness in her eyes that some could call weak,
“It’s nice to have company. I’ve been alone for so long.”
Too blunt a truth for strangers, perhaps, but hers all the same.
“I’m Eilidh.”
@abysm @Rhaegor