Father’s words echo in your mind (Always watching, watching, watching, always listening—) They entwine with your Mother’s tone, for once. They match. It must be important.

Yes, you’ve learned her, finally (finally!) as your Mother. And who is she, this silver satin woman whose hip you cling to? Who is she to you, besides a dam? She guides, yes—but do you care for her guidance? She teaches—yet can you tolerate her lessons? She loves you, you do know this, don’t you, Enyo? Accidental love, surely. She hadn’t meant to quicken your egg, you know.

(Do you accept her love? Do is matter if you do?)

She is warm and soft, though, despite the hardness in her bones, the way she’s built for war. A small machine, mind, beside the grey bulk of your Sire—but it is a machine, oh yes, you are born and bred in the blood of battle, the sweat of conquest. You are not sure what that means for you, yet.

You’ve been learning so much, haven’t you? You’ve learned the winter, how the cold is bitter against your tiny hide, how you must huddle with Sister and Mother for warmth; you’ve learned the smell of blood comes from others too, carcasses of creatures who were unable to stand the chill of the season. You have learned the sky and its creatures, the forest and her creatures, the water, sweet and bitter, and how it’s not safe to swim, not yet. You’ve learned the careful story you’ve been tutored to keep close, the identity that fits you poorly, a scratchy, too-tight chemise upon your fine, sensitive skin. You’re learning and learning and learning and--oh, my Enyo! I’m almost proud of you.

You’re learning of this place, now. The World’s Edge--that’s important for you to know (Father’s echo is near). It will be your new home now, instead of the wilderness and the lonely moon and Mother’s worn, boney legs. She stops beside you—and you learn of borders, of the scent of multitudes who may reside here, and you will learn them, too, in good time.

You snort in the stinging cold, a plume of smoke rising from your nose, and you press your cheek against your Mother’s knee. You feel the call rise loudly, powerfully, from the depths of her gut—and you wait for more things to learn.  


"talk talk talk"