The Tangle from the heart of the universe

The resonance of the unseelie's voice makes him tremble at the words;
and back there he was, standing fidget-fingered at the threshold of remembrance. Ghost-white knuckles aquiver as they frightfully clasped onto the doorknob and a sign that read: unwanted and uncalled for: keep out (or come in if you are). A crack in the door, a crack in the stoneheart'd façade, his mother who could be described as a medley of balsamroot, moonshine and the occasional chant Rhaesuialian limericks & lullabies — abandoned you.

( and if he knew, he wished she could sung those songs to him! )

If Astraeus knew about tall tales of mandrake roots and changelings, he would have assumed the maiden figured he was a doppelgänger of the image of the real child she'd wanted, labored, bled and wept for. She'd probably wept harder when she was faced with the gangly chaos-attracting fetus that was Astraeus. 

A a visible and mental flinch from his words, “I don't want to talk about that, then!,” the boy exclaims overlapping Winterbane's own, now stepping back from the once-montane farer. Often locked lips forcing more speech then 'get out' and 'go away' and 'i hate you' force the enquiry: “why are you hardly on the mountain?”