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02-28-2015, 08:54 AM
There were too many uncertainties, too many questions, laden in the fumbling foil and the recoiling turns. She listened, but couldn’t comprehend all of the missing pieces. He’d woken up – but she’d seen him, still, quiet, sides not filling with air, heart not beating with the quiver of veins, muscles, and sinew, a throng gathered around his fallen form. Only confusion filtered through her mind, and his frame seemed to reflect it, hesitantly, poignantly, searching for the answers neither apparently had, speaking in strange tongues and foreign languages. His mother? Where’d she been all this time – and she had been murdered, condemned, too? Had she been one of the unknown victims, sprawled in hellish wakes and devoured, swallowed, by the disastrous Moon Goddess. The Songbird stared resolutely at the stag, buried and convoluted in too many secrets, too many spells, too many incantations she didn’t know or understand; her brow furrowed into a mixture of determination and precariousness, unsure of which track to follow or mire within. Her voice maintained its semblance of strength, for him, for herself, for the riddles they were casting and attempting to solve; had the murders not even taken place, had the shadows not entranced, had the darkness not illuminated their lifetimes, this never would have happened. “I don’t know about your mother. When I saw you…” She ceased and paused, then drove the resolution further into the schemes, still warm, still tender, but rasping down a subject she hadn’t yearned to speculate and derive. “There was a crowd around your form – prone, lying there, unmoving.” You were dead, I thought you were dead, but she didn’t say it, didn’t maneuver upon the threshold of demise, not until he wondered and pondered over it himself. There was something missing, a link she couldn’t surmise, but was leading into a strange potency, like when she’d healed little Arya, who had seemed designated for the heavens, who had ceased breathing, who couldn’t have been entirely mended by her songs or time, because Lena had no power over the slain and fallen. @[Öde] her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
