[ what a pleasant change it is, for her boys to come to her in supplication (though she mislikes it, too, when they ought never be cowed, even by their mother). she meets him not in the colours of their house but the robin's egg blue of spring (of her mother), a silk dress tied into a ribbon at her neck, legs bare and tucked beneath her, where she sits upon a blanket. embracing this place more than she ever has before (and hiding the marks of the beast, clawed into her chest). as she tips her head, the wisps of hair framing her face flutter in the breeze, her curls otherwise tied up and back.
for a moment, she only looks at him, burnished by the morning light. her beautiful, dying boy. ]
You may. [ she sets her book aside — poetry, from daniel — and peers up at him. ] And you need not linger in pleasantries, when you yearn to speak of more.
[ she knows her son; fiery and impatient, cutting through whatever might delay him from his desired end. the very instincts that led to him making this call. ]
no subject
for a moment, she only looks at him, burnished by the morning light. her beautiful, dying boy. ]
You may. [ she sets her book aside — poetry, from daniel — and peers up at him. ] And you need not linger in pleasantries, when you yearn to speak of more.
[ she knows her son; fiery and impatient, cutting through whatever might delay him from his desired end. the very instincts that led to him making this call. ]