Slipping in my faith until I fall
Nova’s voice rang bright and fearless beneath the canopy, her call lifting straight into the burning leaves overhead.
Marcus felt the sound of it like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples around the stone manifested in the birds that scattered at the sound of her voice. His shoulders tensed before he could stop them. Aside from the birds, the rest of the forest did not echo her shout back. It swallowed it. The hush that followed pressed close, thick as the damp air clinging to his collar. Even the faint rustle of drifting leaves seemed to still, as if the Greatwood itself were listening.
He had heard the stories of how the Mathair was not a gentle hearth-spirit content to bless children and crops. Leafchange was beautiful, yes—but beauty here was edged with rot and endings. The deity of life turning to death could ripen orchards or strip them bare in a single breath. Could fatten game for winter or lead hunters in circles until frost claimed them. Fickle. Proud. Capable of warmth one moment and something far sharper the next.
Marcus swallowed. “Nova,” he murmured cautiously, warning wrapping her name. He tugged on her hand a little, cerulean eyes moving from the fiery canopy above to the tree to her. Where he had moments before been amazed by her wonder and headstrong willfulness, now he was afraid of what might answer her. ”If we’re going to call, don’t you think we should bring an offering?” He quickly reasoned, hoping to pull towards the fact she was a daughter of Safrin and that would surely make sense to her.
Marcus felt the sound of it like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples around the stone manifested in the birds that scattered at the sound of her voice. His shoulders tensed before he could stop them. Aside from the birds, the rest of the forest did not echo her shout back. It swallowed it. The hush that followed pressed close, thick as the damp air clinging to his collar. Even the faint rustle of drifting leaves seemed to still, as if the Greatwood itself were listening.
He had heard the stories of how the Mathair was not a gentle hearth-spirit content to bless children and crops. Leafchange was beautiful, yes—but beauty here was edged with rot and endings. The deity of life turning to death could ripen orchards or strip them bare in a single breath. Could fatten game for winter or lead hunters in circles until frost claimed them. Fickle. Proud. Capable of warmth one moment and something far sharper the next.
Marcus swallowed. “Nova,” he murmured cautiously, warning wrapping her name. He tugged on her hand a little, cerulean eyes moving from the fiery canopy above to the tree to her. Where he had moments before been amazed by her wonder and headstrong willfulness, now he was afraid of what might answer her. ”If we’re going to call, don’t you think we should bring an offering?” He quickly reasoned, hoping to pull towards the fact she was a daughter of Safrin and that would surely make sense to her.
Marcus
He never returned that call
