Lone Star Mountain the sweet taste of olive oil on your lips

It was a glorious time to be Olive. The last dregs of winter were draining from the world, she was in a romance with not one but several people, her sanctuary was thriving with wolves who were dedicated to their peaceful cause, her brother has resurfaced from absolute nonexistence and was once again sharing her life. Best of all, the seraph was with child. She had waited for longer than a year to feel this sort of way, and now that she did, she relished it. She had always taken to pregnancy like a bird took to the wing, and where Lily and others experienced sickness, she felt effervescent, glowing and godlike. Whether it was sheer luck or something psychosomatic, the midwife didn’t really know, but she was grateful anyways.

She did not feel like venturing far from the willows, but she did feel like moving, and the areas that directly surrounded her sanctuary had become just as familiar as her home within. She stayed close to her borders, materializing just beyond them, marveling at how the wilds existed when there were no wolves permanently residing within them. There were no obvious trails or entrances to dens marring the earth’s surface — vermin and fowl abounded — and the air was light and lofty with the scent of all creation. The willows were a holy place but their residence was written upon every tree trunk and every gust of the wind. Here, Olive felt more insignificant and, strangely, it comforted her.

With it being twilight out, Olive prepared herself for a spell of stargazing. She sat tall and straightened her spine, and tried to imagine what it would one day feel like to have the many feet of her children with Delight and Seabreeze kicking from within. It was a familiar sensation, and she smiled at the brief recollection of it. Everything was so fine, so she sat with her nose pointed towards the ever-twinkling stars and wondered what else the gods might have to say.