Sawtooth Spire i'm ephemera, see my 'use by' date

 

phaedra, though unaware of her mother’s own emotional mortar with regards to the father of her children, felt her little heart start to flutter invidiously, a feeling like babyfine lashes brushing against her breast. just as the moth uses the moon to orientate, she used her papabär, and now it was her heart bumping against an ultraviolet porchlight, confused yet persistent in search of its moonlight. "being ma—hic—ke silly choices? bad like—hic—ow?" she hicked.
green and qualmish, once she heard what her mother had to say. ivy crawled into her ears, around her ribcage. every word became scrambled. "now he has o҉t҉h҉e҉r҉ ҉l҉i҉t҉t҉l҉e҉ ҉g҉i҉r҉l҉s҉ and boys to t҉o҉ ҉t҉a҉k҉e҉ ҉c҉a҉r҉e҉ ҉o҉f҉, too. th҉a҉t҉ ҉m҉ean҉s҉ ҉h҉e ҉c҉a҉n'҉t҉ ҉b҉e ҉h҉er҉e҉ ҉all ҉t҉h҉e҉ ҉t҉i҉m҉e҉." static was roaring in her ears by the end of her explanation.
the child drew away from her mother, still upborne by bodily affection, but pushed against her chest, sitting end on to better look at her mama's aestival gaze. the tears her daughter shed had made her eyes glassy and lucid, still misted over with faint newborn blue, but newly appearing like morning twilight in a crystalline pond; reflecting an amethyst, day-two bruised sky on an aureate horizon that crowned a dawning sun. its clouds promised rain, driving rain, as phaedra again considered the why of her father casting his firstborns aside in favor of a consanguineal establishment.
she didn’t understand. couldn't. with new children, would the bloom of papa's love become perennial, or remain how painfully annual it felt to her presently? the opened flower of herself dropped a petal with the renewed sensation of neglect. first, astraeus. and now … 
… replacements. she didn't know the word, but felt it resonate natheless. mother had referred to more daughters. more sons. was she not enough? what of thade? had she been so bad, so slipshod a daughter and heir apparent that he sought to endure for collateral descendants? 
wylla, tasked with the unfair and heavy millstone of explaining to a man’s daughter his own chain of reasoning for his dereliction of fatherly duty, gently soothed her as best she could. her child's father; votarist to a woman that was not she. duty could truly be the death of love, if it was anything like what phaedra felt just hearing these words.
her expression was a maze that turned quickly onto paths of frustration, then sadness, only to be obstructed by a hedgewall of confusion that she couldn’t find the route out of. so she didn’t speak, or ask anymore questions—simply gagged on halfhearted words that withered in her throat and perished in a heavy, resigned exhale. 
feeling listless— tristful— the pearl nuzzled cheek against muzzle, mouthing her mama’s whiskery chin with reciprocal endearment. she then curled herself back into wylla’s chest, unmindfully plucking out the hair of her own pale forelegs. the initial prickle, a brief feeling of scratching an itch, was an almost pleasurable sensation. it distracted her from the bellyache in her heart. she didn’t look up as she spoke her mind sotto voce. ”id… feel insides me,” she breathed, nosing her chest, ”my stummy hurd ride here.” she crammed as close as she could against her mother for comfort, but no matter how close she wedged herself, the comfort felt like diaphanous chiffon against her grief. barely perceptible. a light caress.
as wylla swept a leg over her hindquarters and pulled her in tighter, she allowed herself the small indulgence of solace in knowing she had the abracadabra to limitless cuddles from her mother, someone who prized her personal space with much ferocity. no, we don’t need him all the time, she surmised thoughtfully, picking at the hairs on her legs again. 
”mama?” she fluted after a few moments of silent cuddling, wriggling so she was less gathered in the parentheses of motherly embrace. ”wadt isd vife mean? papa dol’ me strwong man hads many vifes.” she twisted her lips, thinking that she was misremembering the exact phrasing, but woefully lacking the adult capacity to append something useful in these instances called “context” to most of her sentences. phaedra’s pale ears pricked up. ”id ids very impodend do be stong, like siegew will when he’d all horny and as big as da tdwees.” she carried on, innocently.