Larksong Grotto what gods win, what you lose

Jæger, lad hende ikke komme nær rådyret. The gods had decreed.

Aspa had placed herself between the fawn and Ayovi, her eyes closed, drawing in a deep breath of the thick, nauseating air that clung to the hut like a curse.

With steady fangs, she seized the last stoat’s head and, with some effort, wedged it into the fawn’s jaws, still adorned with jimson weed blossoms.

Ayovi, spis.

This time, the offering was larger, more difficult to swallow—a fawn’s skull into which the stoat’s had been embedded. Brothers devouring one another, brothers destined to become one.

De vil være fire, men du vil kun se tre. She pronounced with certainty. If Aspa spoke true, Ayovi would be spared the sight of a stillborn—should the fawn endure at all. The gods bestowed and the gods reclaimed. Through suffering and fear, strong souls were forged. Without misfortune, joy was but a mirage; without war, peace held no savor.

Din tredje, din rådyrkalv, han vakler. Han har brug for dig. Slug. Aspa urged, pressing her to consume the grotesque assemblage of bone and flesh.

Han og den anden hermelin er bundet af en kærlighed så heftig, så broderlig, at den fortærer sig selv. Hvis din tredje overlever, vil han bære hengivenhedens byrde i sig. Han vil vogte, han vil beskytte, han vil elske! The sorceress murmured, swaying on her feet.

Din sidstfødte vil ikke se verden, Ayovi. Bed ham give slip, før han trækker rådyrkalven med sig. she revealed at last, her voice steeped in something near sorrow.

Hør dem, se dem, tal til dem! Et barn vil høre sin mor. She had never borne life within her womb, yet she had witnessed the silent weeping of mothers, the echoes of their wails. And perhaps—perhaps she could hear, too, the cries of those yet to be born, the war waged in the unseen, the fraternal struggle that gnawed at the living.