Hushed Willows [festival] the sun's not yellow, it's chicken

well, there went that experiment. no one contributed in any fashion other than a question from the burly man, a remark from the woman. another emerged, and he turned his gaze to her with a solemn nod before returning his attention to the trio as a whole. he let a beat, then two and three, of silence go before continuing, his voice hushed as the willows they sat under.

flora was blessed with anything and everything, but sienna, he said, looking at the brute, had one thing her sister did not. and when jules' seed did not take root in his lover's womb, her sister offered her womb instead. not to raise the children as her own—but to raise them as the children of flora and jules, and they none the wiser. they would never know who had suckled them, only who they came to call 'mother.'

cortez looked up at the star-spangled sky half-shielded by the canopy, finding one bright burning ball of silver to focus on in particular. breeding seasons came and went. the arrangement remained the same. and flora tried, and tried, and tried—but each spring, she was barren. and sienna, instead, gave her pups. for sienna was selfless. . .always had been, always would be. she never took a mate for her own, for she knew that was one less niece or nephew for her to love.

and then one day, during the rainy season, flora lay with jules—and finally, the gods made her fertile.