Noctisardor Bypass seda

etienne was gone with his sister for now, not that she could blame him if he chose to never come back. dinah had never come home. John still traveled, trying to find the sons who burned in the mind of a mother who locked herself into a cage before she tried to find them.
guilt tore at her, deeply, harshly; shame burned in her very spirit. along the lagoon she sought @Amadeo again, letting his strong arms envelop her. 
"i need to look for my children, as soon as the pups are a little older. but i n-need a leader before that. i can't do this alone." 
you knew that, druid! why did you go? why did you leave me?

HEHEHEHEHEHE

amadeo was quiet. in some way he understood that as soon as heda had come to him, bleary-eyed and overtaken with spilling emotion, that this was about to be one of those times where he was meant to listen.
and listen he does, her face pressed into the hard muscle of his chest. she needed to find her children, she says, and he knows automatically that she is referring to the ones who had scattered to the wind — the ones he had never met.
let them come to you, heda, he says it as comfortingly as he can muster, gently trying to push her in the other direction. at this age, and especially after what has happened to them, they are likely trying to find out who they are in the world and where they fit in it. it doesn't mean you did anything wrong, but i do not think they want to be found.
silence carries him over to his next statement. but that bond between parent and child will always prevail. trust that they will return when they are ready. god will lead them back to you. he had been waiting over two years — wren was three now, he realizes — for such a moment. he refrains purposefully from voicing this.
and then she speaks of a leader, of needing one in place of druid. he could have taken it as an invitation, but instead, he merely cocks his head downward in order to meet her gaze. who is it that you'd like to lead beside you?

:D

the quiet children. the laughter of her boys. the silent daughters.
amadeo did not encourage heda to make a pilgrimage of motherhood, but rather to stand back, and heda froze within the strong circlet of his arms. not with fear, but with a transient sense of fear and longing, a dread that if she did not go out, they would one day, one by one, turn up dead.
"they were only children when we — when i —" but they were children no longer.
would appearing upon the shoreline of sweetharbor harm them anew? she had become a mother again, she had — oh, dinah, ava, ana!
she had made her choice before their eyes, and shame singed though her like lashwhip. 
god will lead them back to you, and she felt the tension slip from her muscles, replaced with a desperate trust.
her eyes reached up for amadeo, her gaze meeting his. "you. i-it should be you. beside me."

had he the capacity for such an emotion, amadeo might have felt truly, genuinely sorry for heda. he knew the same pain which he saw overlain across her expression, and he knew it deeply; he himself had never truly stopped looking for his own girls.
and he also did not believe that he had caused them any harm.
forgive them, heda, amadeo sighs, and forgive yourself. trust in god. trust in me.
holding her like this, serving as her confidant, her savior! ah, the pleasure of it stole away any thoughts of his daughters. she molds against him like putty, her beautiful eyes looking up at him as if he were made of gold.
she wishes for his leadership.
in some way, his shock is genuine — him? had anselm declined such an offer, or was he simply unfit? his words are calculated carefully before he gives her a calm, almost sheepish half-smile. if that's what you want, then we will lead together, heart fluttering, pulse beginning to fly; father and mother... husband and wife.

husband, wife; yes; yes; but — "not yet, amadeo," and the countenance heda raised to him now scintillated with pain. "i want to be — whole. unbroken." deserving; it held beneath her tongue and hummed only for his ear.
"father and mother," offered like glass beads on a shaking palm; heda searching him for any sign he would be angry with her wishing to push the cowl of grief aside before she donned another veil.
but she was so tired of being lonely, and she knew her mourning could not take the form of so many years. so many months. "i will be your wife by the end of summer," heda breathed, for she knew rivenwood would glow so brightly in gold that it might wash away her sorrow.

he was displeased slightly, yes, but not without understanding and not in any way that would be visible to her, for on a deeper level he understood her plight. heda was not shaba. to bear another's name beside his instead of his little goldfinch — he had never even thought of it this way until now, and he softens.
but he had years to grieve shaba, years that he'd spent committing her memory and the taste of her flesh to his heart. heda had not. anselm and caracal both were fresh wounds.
he plants a kiss atop her head. god will tell us when the time is right, he whispers to her, dark lips pressed against the feathersoft curve of her ear. it will be hard for me, too, a phrase gone unspoken.
until then, we will be father and mother, a reassuring grin touches his muzzle as he peels back to gaze upon her lovely face. and you and i will get through it together.

god. together. time. ingredients of a slurry which she ate eagerly into her own arteries, numbing her to the world which had devoured her children.
and heda willingly accepted the reduction of self, bowing her head for his kiss and chastening herself for not being ready.
her eyes promised that she would be, and her lips parted in a small shape before heda turned and was gone from him, gone into her swarmed anticipation and the silence of grief that did not abate.