Sing to me, I am not doing well
Getting tired of my own words
Shadows deepened in the blue twilight. A blackbird sang its heart out in the distance, a gutwrenching eulogy to the setting sun that repeated throughout the forest as others picked up the hymn. As darkness grew, stars shimmered into sight above the treetops; but below, where night already had settled its cloak around slumbering giant and sprouting saplings, nestling next to moss-covered boulders and fallen logs, another kind of light gasped into being. Getting tired of my own words
With the snick of flint on steel, sparks illuminated a woman's pale face and hands. Finding the wick of a lantern a flame hissed into being. Not golden and warm, nor ruddy with soot and greasy oil; this fire glowed an eerie blue, and smelled sharply of the chemicals the wick had been treated with.
Closing the lid the woman rose to her feet, pulling the dark hood down further over her head. With the sole exception for the pale hand that held the lantern she was robed in black from head to toe, and as she began to step away from the path into the deep forest, she walked as softly as she could. She had left her name behind for the night, left the warmth of home and hearth to roam with the spirits of the night.
What was a will-o-wisp? What lives did they lead? What did it mean to guide the lost, to safe paths or out upon bogs and marshes where the ground began to sway and gave way beneath your feet? Ill omens, some said. Guides of the lost, others claimed. She would find out for herself tonight, bearing her own strange light, away from the beaten path, in search of the kin to one small flicker of hope she had come to love, so many years ago. In order to find what she sought, this time the woman would have to become lost herself.
Sing to me, cause I can't hear myself
through the loudness of my own hurts
through the loudness of my own hurts
base inspired by Odd <3
