Chimera Fields slow burn

fuck man  ;___;

he sage woman dove into a story that she claimed might alleviate her pain; but for the first few parts of the stories, Olive began to seriously doubt that. Olive’s attentions hung on her every word, stricken by the similarities between herself and the unnamed mother in the story. Love. Support. Family. Heartbreak. Depression. Revival. Though her own experience was not nearly as brutal as the one danced upon Forrest’s tongue, she felt it just as keenly. 

Still, Olive hung onto every word and her heart rose and dipped as if upon the waves of a song, letting her imagination steep in the vivid imagery, even though much of it was painful to witness — and, for a second, Olive could not help but muse of the uncertain nature of death. Which was easier to deal with: the knowledge that the storied woman’s children finally knew peace, or the many unanswerable questions left in the wake of her children’s separate disappearances.  There was a certain finality to death that she envied.

Yet, as she listened earnestly, ears straining forward to capture Forrest’s every word, Olive could not help but feel tears prick at the back of her eyes. Her throat tightened and she struggled to swallow the emotions that inevitably welled up in the twitching and struggling of her facade. When the parable concluded, weaving into the end a lovely message of love and innocence, Olive held a long silence while she let the tenor settle between them. 

Finally, the druid picked up her gaze and realize that Forrest had not been looking at her either, clearly encumbered with the gravity of the tale. Tasting the words on her tongue before speaking, she commented “I have never heard anything more awful, yet so comforting, in my life.” and fell silent again. There was not much that words could express at that moment, and all of her carefully-chosen syntax could not seem to do it justice.

One dainty paw in front of the other, the sylph drifted forward and placed her nose upon Forrest’s shoulder. She breathed in her scent; sweet, maternal. “You have an amazing perspective…” Olive whispered into the woman’s feathered shoulder. “I am so happy to have met you on this night.” In case Forrest [whom Olive no longer considered a strange] was not as open to touch as she was, the pale one moved back a step with a shimmy of her hips. “Tell me, the mother from your story… Where is she now?” Her eyes glinted and glimmered, enamored with the woman from the story and the woman who leant against the tree before her. “Does she thrive still?”