Maea
Rest against my pillow
like the aging winter sun
like the aging winter sun
Twilight fell over the flowering meadows and laid a blanket of darkness over the blossoms. A heady scent lingered in the balmy air, rich with the perfume of honeysuckle and jasmine and rose. The last evening songs were sung in thickets and groves, quieting one by one as stars lit in the high heavens, marking the end of another day.
When a thin mist rose to dance around her shoulders, Maea shifted back from tigress into human form and began to search for a place to make camp. Mourn never quite felt suited for such things. Much like having a meal in a library or relaxing in a barrack, the neat flowerbeds and well tended pathways always discouraged anything but peaceful contemplation. And while she did have a reason to linger, it was not a pleasant one.
Drawn by reluctant duty, Maea's feet brought her to a very specific spot in the landscape. Knowing it like the knew the back of her own hand, she halted near an intersection of paths and lingered, staring at the unremarkable spot in the flowerbed where a fae lay buried. In her belt, the throwing disc seemed to hum as if recalling the struggle that took place here, some years ago. Angered words, taunts that escalated into blows; Maea still recalled the fear and desperation, and the feeling as blood washed over her hands as a life was extinguished.
Nothing remained to mark the spot. A staff had once stood here, but seemed to have vanished; so too bad the dark rags Maea had wanted to keep, but not dared to wear. Was someone else wearing them now? Ludo's gift, once a mark of favor Maea had worn proudly and with conviction...
As darkness deepened around her, she gathered what fallen branches and kindling she could find and made up a campfire in the middle of the intersection. While not strictly necessary in the Longheat night, it was comforting to have light, and soothing to watch the dancing flames. Chewing on the last bits of bread and fruit from her pack, she spent some time meditating, searching for the spark within that might connect her to the flames.
Ever since Harper had told her of the possibility, it had become a daily ritual. A moment spent each day, whenever there was a fire or candle nearby, in fervent prayer that she might awaken a touch - just a whisper - of her former potential. Perhaps she ought to be content with the shift. Once, she would have been. But the years had made her greedy and more selfish than she once was, until the idea of living in moderation under the eyes of the old gods no longer held any appeal. She had tried that, and what did it lead to? Mistake upon mistake, until she had to fight for her very right to exist on this very spot.
"What would you make of me now, Nephele?" she asked into the night. Naming her, to invite the ghost of the fae to reappear and pass judgement again. Only silence answered, and with a sigh Maea stoked the fire. Built it out bigger, until the heat wilted flowers in the beds nearby.
Peeling off her clothes, Maes reached her hands out to the flames. Reached into them, not without trepidation, and watched in awe how they licked her skin without burning it. Bracing herself, she slowly eased herself into the pyre. Like sinking into a hot bath, warmth soaked into her limbs, burning off sweat and dirt until only clean ash remained; and on a bed of glowing embers, the Ancient fell asleep. Dreamt of fire and shadows and the ghosts of all the ones she'd lost, until the night passed and a pale dawn bled color back into the world once more.
When a thin mist rose to dance around her shoulders, Maea shifted back from tigress into human form and began to search for a place to make camp. Mourn never quite felt suited for such things. Much like having a meal in a library or relaxing in a barrack, the neat flowerbeds and well tended pathways always discouraged anything but peaceful contemplation. And while she did have a reason to linger, it was not a pleasant one.
Drawn by reluctant duty, Maea's feet brought her to a very specific spot in the landscape. Knowing it like the knew the back of her own hand, she halted near an intersection of paths and lingered, staring at the unremarkable spot in the flowerbed where a fae lay buried. In her belt, the throwing disc seemed to hum as if recalling the struggle that took place here, some years ago. Angered words, taunts that escalated into blows; Maea still recalled the fear and desperation, and the feeling as blood washed over her hands as a life was extinguished.
Nothing remained to mark the spot. A staff had once stood here, but seemed to have vanished; so too bad the dark rags Maea had wanted to keep, but not dared to wear. Was someone else wearing them now? Ludo's gift, once a mark of favor Maea had worn proudly and with conviction...
As darkness deepened around her, she gathered what fallen branches and kindling she could find and made up a campfire in the middle of the intersection. While not strictly necessary in the Longheat night, it was comforting to have light, and soothing to watch the dancing flames. Chewing on the last bits of bread and fruit from her pack, she spent some time meditating, searching for the spark within that might connect her to the flames.
Ever since Harper had told her of the possibility, it had become a daily ritual. A moment spent each day, whenever there was a fire or candle nearby, in fervent prayer that she might awaken a touch - just a whisper - of her former potential. Perhaps she ought to be content with the shift. Once, she would have been. But the years had made her greedy and more selfish than she once was, until the idea of living in moderation under the eyes of the old gods no longer held any appeal. She had tried that, and what did it lead to? Mistake upon mistake, until she had to fight for her very right to exist on this very spot.
"What would you make of me now, Nephele?" she asked into the night. Naming her, to invite the ghost of the fae to reappear and pass judgement again. Only silence answered, and with a sigh Maea stoked the fire. Built it out bigger, until the heat wilted flowers in the beds nearby.
Peeling off her clothes, Maes reached her hands out to the flames. Reached into them, not without trepidation, and watched in awe how they licked her skin without burning it. Bracing herself, she slowly eased herself into the pyre. Like sinking into a hot bath, warmth soaked into her limbs, burning off sweat and dirt until only clean ash remained; and on a bed of glowing embers, the Ancient fell asleep. Dreamt of fire and shadows and the ghosts of all the ones she'd lost, until the night passed and a pale dawn bled color back into the world once more.
Only wake each morning to
remember that you're gone
remember that you're gone
