Grainne
Long had it been since she had last lain her head in Denocte, long had it been since she gazed upon Calligo's sky within the goddess's own domain. Even on the windswept moor, nestled within the crag of two rolling hills, she felt a haunting ache of familiarity within her breast at the scent of heather and grasses ringing out even against the cold winter night. Drawn by the dancing ribbons in the sky she ascended the nearby rise, ignorant and uncaring of the snow that chilled her hocks or the mist that curled from her breath. Denocte was a world all it's own in comparison to Solterra, fittingly as different as Night and Day, and she found the change soothing to her rankled spirits for the moor brought with it a false sense of peace. It brought her back to a time long forgotten, of tossing her heels with a smoky-eyed man across the prairie, bodies entwining and parting in a wild dance beneath Calligo's eyes, of singing with joy and passion until the hills rang with the echo of her voice.
The world, when she allowed the memory to fade, seemed bleak and ill by comparison even with the brilliant light twisting across the sky like a river. It beckoned her to dance, to sing, to revel in the world but she simply turned her head and began her slow walk down the hill once more. What was a dance, when the only one to witness it was oneself? What was a song, when none could hear it? Why revel, when there was no one to share it with? She had chosen her life of solitude, and was determined to adhere to it even when she had to quell the flare of longing within her breast. She would be patient, Grainne, until the day came when she could shrug off her solitary existence and once more allow the flower of her heart to burst into bloom.
After all, she had all the time in the world to wait.
She had just ducked beneath the horizon when a familiar scent drawn on the cold winter wind drew her to a stop, head turned to the breeze. It tickled a memory, one not yet dusted with age, and she turned to follow that thread of familiarity. It brought to mind a frail body and the powerful scent of the herb she had treated him with, of watching another lead him away to fate unknown. Reaching the crest of the ridge revealed the figure below, meandering through the prairie, though at a distance where she could not tell whether he had seen her or not.
Ipomoea, a child no longer.
Conflict warred within her, a longing to make her way towards him to learn of what he had grown into, and a hesitant fear that he had forgotten her and the stories she shared around a tiny fire. She was rooted to place, a statue frozen into the snowy white landscape, torn by indecision and helpless but to watch as that figure grew smaller and the wind shifted to rush after him as if agreeing with her silent hope to turn around.
The world, when she allowed the memory to fade, seemed bleak and ill by comparison even with the brilliant light twisting across the sky like a river. It beckoned her to dance, to sing, to revel in the world but she simply turned her head and began her slow walk down the hill once more. What was a dance, when the only one to witness it was oneself? What was a song, when none could hear it? Why revel, when there was no one to share it with? She had chosen her life of solitude, and was determined to adhere to it even when she had to quell the flare of longing within her breast. She would be patient, Grainne, until the day came when she could shrug off her solitary existence and once more allow the flower of her heart to burst into bloom.
After all, she had all the time in the world to wait.
She had just ducked beneath the horizon when a familiar scent drawn on the cold winter wind drew her to a stop, head turned to the breeze. It tickled a memory, one not yet dusted with age, and she turned to follow that thread of familiarity. It brought to mind a frail body and the powerful scent of the herb she had treated him with, of watching another lead him away to fate unknown. Reaching the crest of the ridge revealed the figure below, meandering through the prairie, though at a distance where she could not tell whether he had seen her or not.
Ipomoea, a child no longer.
Conflict warred within her, a longing to make her way towards him to learn of what he had grown into, and a hesitant fear that he had forgotten her and the stories she shared around a tiny fire. She was rooted to place, a statue frozen into the snowy white landscape, torn by indecision and helpless but to watch as that figure grew smaller and the wind shifted to rush after him as if agreeing with her silent hope to turn around.
"I've watched the mountains rise from dust"
@Ipomoea
