Stone Circle We can wake up every morning, we can set ourselves on fire

Prisnálund
Tags for ref, all welcome!

Their parents' absence was a wound felt keenly at all times — but Foxglove had found that mornings were the hardest. They were so quiet, now. Where once Mama would have woken them with breakfast and singsong greetings and soft plans for the day, then later Dusty Rose with shorter greetings and somewhat meager portions, Foxglove was now greeted first by the faint sounds of her sisters shifting and waking.

Most mornings, she found herself watching them. @Petal always seemed to stir first, but slowly. It was @Dahlia who always rose from their customary pile, who roused her sisters with a kiss to each of their foreheads and that careful look she wore each time she donned their absent mother's role like an overlarge coat; that look that Foxglove thought meant she might be sad, or worried, or both, but perhaps didn't want her sisters to see it. Their routine was a quiet shuffling of sleepy feet and murmurings of breakfast, then; perhaps they would visit a cache or, simply because it had become their habit and meant more time spent together, scrounge up a few small rodents and weasels to snack on.

But this morning — this morning Foxglove didn't think she could stand any of it, the quiet and the sadness that they each tried to hide. At dawn she slipped away from her sisters without a word. Foxglove had found a favored place in the grove of pale trees and soft, mossy ground. It was a strangely wonderful place to dance, obstacles and all. That was what Foxglove did now: as the sun rose, she danced, and couldn't help but fancy that she was calling the light down to the earth.