Slipping in my faith until I fall
Marcus turned the wreath slightly, watching the way the pieces came together under her careful eye. What had started as a loose ring of branches had become something far brighter with layers of flame-colored leaves, pale flowers tucked between them, acorns glinting like small polished stones. It looked good. Better than he had expected when the idea first left his mouth.
Her question about hunting lingered a moment in his mind before he answered, though his tone stayed light, trying to keep any tension from coiling between his shoulders or any heat from racing up his neck. “Shifts help,” he said with a small shrug, “but they’re not everything. Sometimes the wind’s wrong, or the ground’s too hard to track. And sometimes…” he tapped the wreath lightly with one finger, “…it’s just about knowing how to do things without magic.” That's what Cordelia had taught him when he was young. That she, and his father, had been able to accomplish so much in their lives before the touch of gods.
He smiled faintly at her confidence about the Mathair, though he didn’t argue the point. If anyone could decorate something bold enough to impress a fickle deity, it might be Nova. When she clapped and declared it finished, Marcus straightened and studied the towering tree above them. The roots were enormous, but the branches that truly belonged to the Mathair stretched far higher. “We should probably hang it higher.” he said, tipping his head back to judge the branches. “Somewhere the wind can catch it a little.”
Without much more explanation, Marcus stepped back a few paces from the trunk and set the wreath carefully in the grass. A familiar warmth rippled through him as his shift took hold, bones and muscle reshaping in a smooth, practiced motion. Where Marcus had stood, the white-tailed eagle now spread its broad wings. The great bird grasped the wreath carefully in its talons before beating upward through the wet autumn air, rising toward the wide limbs of the Mathair’s tree. After a brief circle to judge the branch, he settled and hooked the wreath securely where it would hang, bright and visible among the burning leaves.
Her question about hunting lingered a moment in his mind before he answered, though his tone stayed light, trying to keep any tension from coiling between his shoulders or any heat from racing up his neck. “Shifts help,” he said with a small shrug, “but they’re not everything. Sometimes the wind’s wrong, or the ground’s too hard to track. And sometimes…” he tapped the wreath lightly with one finger, “…it’s just about knowing how to do things without magic.” That's what Cordelia had taught him when he was young. That she, and his father, had been able to accomplish so much in their lives before the touch of gods.
He smiled faintly at her confidence about the Mathair, though he didn’t argue the point. If anyone could decorate something bold enough to impress a fickle deity, it might be Nova. When she clapped and declared it finished, Marcus straightened and studied the towering tree above them. The roots were enormous, but the branches that truly belonged to the Mathair stretched far higher. “We should probably hang it higher.” he said, tipping his head back to judge the branches. “Somewhere the wind can catch it a little.”
Without much more explanation, Marcus stepped back a few paces from the trunk and set the wreath carefully in the grass. A familiar warmth rippled through him as his shift took hold, bones and muscle reshaping in a smooth, practiced motion. Where Marcus had stood, the white-tailed eagle now spread its broad wings. The great bird grasped the wreath carefully in its talons before beating upward through the wet autumn air, rising toward the wide limbs of the Mathair’s tree. After a brief circle to judge the branch, he settled and hooked the wreath securely where it would hang, bright and visible among the burning leaves.
Marcus
He never returned that call
