wearing my dream like a diadem in some better land.
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January 13, 2020, 12:04 AM
(This post was last modified: January 13, 2020, 12:04 AM by Andraste.)
the second love is supposed to be our hard love – the one that teaches us lessons about who we are and how often we want or need to be loved. this is the kind of love that hurts, whether through lies, pain, or manipulation. it's the love that we wished was right. @Mahler.
Mahler (envinyatar) —
second love. Second chance.
This is the closest she's been to him since she wept what was left of her heart's beating and so a part of her – the rest of Aurëwen – longs to part her lips in an old pining and call and call and call for him! To let him hear the song of her and for the desolations of their souls collide as stars once more and she wants him; she wants what might have been, had he felt for her as properly and as well as she had of him.
In the absence of the male who she had not been promised to, the then-mother had turned to rest her cheek against his cheek in the hopes of some soulreach. In the forsaking of that very same male who she had not been promised to, again she had turned to the musiker; had brought herself beneath him and had swept him into the depths of her giving figure without hesitation (a pattern, perhaps?) and – oh! she had loved him!
She had loved him from the tender gleaning upon their plinth; had loved him beneath the Moonspire within @Lyra's little lair and in their Netherwood alclove. Had loved him enough, more than enough, to embark from the Weald and to his Hollow's side; to move an entire people on the belief that such a joining might reap the mountains' fortunes, all. And though she had feared his furthering request of an accord with her own Court, she had so foolishly, so fervently held the faith that the litter of theirs that would have sprung from a union would be those that he would love so singularly. She had promised him a second daughter, remade;
but he had hurt her.
He had hurt her and though she had taken him to her and had brought them to their knees with such wanting – it was a name that she had ever promised to herself first, and so thus would it be the trilling of her own daughter, born of roots seeded with a true love. Yet spite it was not;
it was not the fury which he had seemed of her so capable, so unendingly felt for his transgressions that she had once sworn herself to.
Still: she was more than a womb to fill with an empty contract. She was more than one to merely be smitten with and ne'er chanced further.
The shadowpriest had made his choice. And she must not look back.
She breathes all of Mahler out; lets him go with saltglint limning lashes, for she will never not feel everything entire. But she does not warble for him as she once might have, and picks her petal-soft paws down down down the rises.
Onto the third.
second love. Second chance.
This is the closest she's been to him since she wept what was left of her heart's beating and so a part of her – the rest of Aurëwen – longs to part her lips in an old pining and call and call and call for him! To let him hear the song of her and for the desolations of their souls collide as stars once more and she wants him; she wants what might have been, had he felt for her as properly and as well as she had of him.
In the absence of the male who she had not been promised to, the then-mother had turned to rest her cheek against his cheek in the hopes of some soulreach. In the forsaking of that very same male who she had not been promised to, again she had turned to the musiker; had brought herself beneath him and had swept him into the depths of her giving figure without hesitation (a pattern, perhaps?) and – oh! she had loved him!
She had loved him from the tender gleaning upon their plinth; had loved him beneath the Moonspire within @Lyra's little lair and in their Netherwood alclove. Had loved him enough, more than enough, to embark from the Weald and to his Hollow's side; to move an entire people on the belief that such a joining might reap the mountains' fortunes, all. And though she had feared his furthering request of an accord with her own Court, she had so foolishly, so fervently held the faith that the litter of theirs that would have sprung from a union would be those that he would love so singularly. She had promised him a second daughter, remade;
but he had hurt her.
He had hurt her and though she had taken him to her and had brought them to their knees with such wanting – it was a name that she had ever promised to herself first, and so thus would it be the trilling of her own daughter, born of roots seeded with a true love. Yet spite it was not;
it was not the fury which he had seemed of her so capable, so unendingly felt for his transgressions that she had once sworn herself to.
Still: she was more than a womb to fill with an empty contract. She was more than one to merely be smitten with and ne'er chanced further.
The shadowpriest had made his choice. And she must not look back.
She breathes all of Mahler out; lets him go with saltglint limning lashes, for she will never not feel everything entire. But she does not warble for him as she once might have, and picks her petal-soft paws down down down the rises.
Onto the third.
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ᴍᴀʜʟᴇʀ - by Andraste - January 13, 2020, 12:04 AM