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Mist lingered around her in the night's greys, leaving the forest' sounds behind in a mere hollow echo. In the white haze the lights of the fireflies dimmed or flared, dissapearing on turn in the mist. She looked how it curled, grew and moved - even though it was nothing but a cloud, a wet smokescreen in this cozy summer night. It had taken her a week - a week to notice, until she had finally realized it had been her the whole time, controlling them. She had been gifted. A gift from her Gods; telling her she was on the right path. Whatever path of life in whatever direction that was suppose to be. But did it matter - as she was apparently on her way to succeed in finding her Purpose; the 'must' in a fulfilling live, according to the Church of the Cherry Oak. Five years later and she still hadn't found hers. All these emotional hazards later; confusion, heart-break, finding a home, jumping into a job she already did for another God. And now her God had gifted her. But why?
The why was the coal, the wood for the burning thoughts in her eyes, meanwhile her mind - heart - soul, being searched, emptied, shaken upside down, torn apart to be glued back together... To find that reason for that one why: Why did her own Gods encourage her to be the disciple for another? Why. WHY?
The leaves in he holy garden rushed, ran as a new gust came around. The branches of the Cherry Oak swayed. Fire red roses grew between its mighty roots, always in the shadows. In the tree acorns hang, also swaying - but never falling, their shields gleaming in the sunlight. And there was silence. No lullaby's and no answers to be found here.
What would become of her if she continued on? She was no hero, that was certain - and it seemed to be the only thing. Where there was sun, there was shadow. Life was meant to find a Purpose in. She had never felt like this. She was supposed to be an anchor, caring, steady, all-knowing. In the greys of the night the tigermare held her wings stretched like hands before her eyes. But they would not be the kind of hands to hold on to, as disarray was what would sprout from hands which hold both darkness and light.
She needed the holy Cherry Oak's approvement, but the Old Lands were forlorn. And she was nothing she was supposed to be, so what was there for her to hold on to?
Maren had let herself glide in the long wet grass, next to the bark of an old Laurel oak and let her head rest on the crusty wood. Night's comforting temperatures stroke her red-striped skin. Tired, but eyes wide open. Above her head a halo shone while walls of mist were building up around her. The mare was left in confusion, as the road of belief often was.
But not for her. And that was what made her uncertain.
@[Rei] || Notes: || Wordcount: 509 || "talking" ||
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