Stone Circle I got a head full of sharp knives

Prisnálund

Sobbing, still clutching the grey fox pelt, Foxglove nestled herself among the ferns. She was careful not to stain the pelt, either with her tears or the grass, but kept it close to her. It truly was a beautiful thing. Fox hadn't owned very many beautiful things in her life — and all of them, little trinkets and keepsakes she'd collected, had been left behind in that valley.

Through her tears she stared at the pelt, trying to convince herself that it was worth all the trouble she'd surely brought to herself and her sisters.

they had been welcomed with open arms, and the temporary permanence of it all conflicted inside of her. she could not hold out hope that reverie would come back. when she suffered from her afflictions, she had left her body with her girls. now, there was no such keepsake. only memories, and the fading sound of golden song. 

it is the sound of crying that draws dahlia from her desperate pacing. one of the girls — one of her girls now. 

there was a time that dahlia would have hated this, would have taken foxglove’s beloved thing and crushed it from existence. but they had precious little to be grateful for, and if reverie had instilled one lesson upon her favorite daughter it was that sisters are important, dahlia. one of the only lines she could hear her mother saying clearly in her mind. 

hey, she says, softer than she’s ever been. the makeshift mother lays down next to foxglove, throwing a paw over her shoulder and kissing her cheek. what has you so worked up?