Come sit right here and sleep while I slip poison in your ear
Hesitation, pausing, delaying in the mist, and she was just a tiny speck in its doldrums, in the rise and fall of so many aches and pains here – in barrows, in hills, in locked, iron doors. When there was nothing for a few short moments, the girl and eagle both blinked, thought to look away, to glance over surroundings and pale moonlight, the shimmer of effervescence still gleaming to corpses and graves.
Then scaled wings spread, and her attention didn’t waver again. She focused, she listened, in her quiet threshold, in the pulse and vibrancy of life still clinging to her skin, to her plumage, to feathers that weren’t her own (but taken from an offering; and now she’d always be that way).
And here was where she’d lost some comprehension and understanding along the way. Mabel had never been in a war, hadn’t been able to conjure the likelihoods, parameters, or feelings from stories passed down. They’d existed inside and within their barrier, taking in the same myths and legends, until they were numb.
But Aamu was someone who’d been in it, immersed in the quandaries, in the hell, in the Order ramparts, in everything damned and due to come again. And her eyes fell when he mentioned suppressing the emotions, the feelings, because she swallowed down a multitude each and every day until she was a shell, and it was so much easier to live in her reticence and hate. But it’s not fine, is it? For herself, for him. They could admit it.
Mabel didn’t expect the anguish thereafter either – maybe she’d thought about it, wondered his containments and thoughts too many times before but hadn’t pressed, hadn’t really asked until now. She deeply regretted it; hadn’t meant to cause him anymore pain, because he’d never been a target. Nieces. Everything. Fighting fighting fighting until he’d been pulled here again.
I’m sorry, she held aloft, because she was. The youth wasn’t regretful or apologetic about a lot of things. She didn’t hold many rues in her chest. She existed on whispers and eerie quandaries, on a slight balance of resilience, resurrection, and malice. And Mabel was a poor, pathetic replacement for moments and people held near and dear.
Her talons gripped and grasped the grass, like she might be pulled away on a pulse of wind. I’m tired of being useless, she admitted; because there were so many plots and motives to uphold, and her stupefying frame had yet to manage how or when or where. I’m tired of being a pawn for other people’s games; a reciting of her thoughts and feelings on the LongNight debacle. And I’m very tired of Wessex, and there she laughed, but it wasn’t a joke.
Then scaled wings spread, and her attention didn’t waver again. She focused, she listened, in her quiet threshold, in the pulse and vibrancy of life still clinging to her skin, to her plumage, to feathers that weren’t her own (but taken from an offering; and now she’d always be that way).
And here was where she’d lost some comprehension and understanding along the way. Mabel had never been in a war, hadn’t been able to conjure the likelihoods, parameters, or feelings from stories passed down. They’d existed inside and within their barrier, taking in the same myths and legends, until they were numb.
But Aamu was someone who’d been in it, immersed in the quandaries, in the hell, in the Order ramparts, in everything damned and due to come again. And her eyes fell when he mentioned suppressing the emotions, the feelings, because she swallowed down a multitude each and every day until she was a shell, and it was so much easier to live in her reticence and hate. But it’s not fine, is it? For herself, for him. They could admit it.
Mabel didn’t expect the anguish thereafter either – maybe she’d thought about it, wondered his containments and thoughts too many times before but hadn’t pressed, hadn’t really asked until now. She deeply regretted it; hadn’t meant to cause him anymore pain, because he’d never been a target. Nieces. Everything. Fighting fighting fighting until he’d been pulled here again.
I’m sorry, she held aloft, because she was. The youth wasn’t regretful or apologetic about a lot of things. She didn’t hold many rues in her chest. She existed on whispers and eerie quandaries, on a slight balance of resilience, resurrection, and malice. And Mabel was a poor, pathetic replacement for moments and people held near and dear.
Her talons gripped and grasped the grass, like she might be pulled away on a pulse of wind. I’m tired of being useless, she admitted; because there were so many plots and motives to uphold, and her stupefying frame had yet to manage how or when or where. I’m tired of being a pawn for other people’s games; a reciting of her thoughts and feelings on the LongNight debacle. And I’m very tired of Wessex, and there she laughed, but it wasn’t a joke.
MABEL
