Lena
hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul
that perches in the soul
They hadn’t had the heralds at their ears either, not before the fall of the barrier (at least for three hundred years), but with recent influxes, with Outlander motions and notions, it meant everyone had their equal share of inquiries and confessions. But to have never heard from one was an intriguing perspective, and it gave the Caretaker a manner of pause for a few moments; the thought flickering through her head, before giving a measured countenance. “That’s fair. There’s a steep learning curve, I imagine, coming from another world.”
She grinned back at the semblances of sweets though, eyes glancing upward, following the horizon and the changing of the sun’s intervals in the sky. “Very wise of you,” and she laughed, a fresh breeze snagging at her hair. “What’s your favorite thing to make?”
And with that, they could continue along their conversation, content and merry with notions and ideas, rather than the impending falls of war.
{FIN}
She grinned back at the semblances of sweets though, eyes glancing upward, following the horizon and the changing of the sun’s intervals in the sky. “Very wise of you,” and she laughed, a fresh breeze snagging at her hair. “What’s your favorite thing to make?”
And with that, they could continue along their conversation, content and merry with notions and ideas, rather than the impending falls of war.
{FIN}
and sings the tune without the words
and never stops at all
and never stops at all
