Moonspear fade left, fade right, fade out completely

Eight weeks had passed since the Svartell’s expatriation. Eight weeks. Eight weeks! That was eight weeks since she had heard the voice of the man she once called Ceannasach.

Fifty-six days since she last glimpsed the downy, boyish visage of her firstborn. 

One thousand, three hundred and fourty-four hours since the moment she knew her devotion to the dark night must be smothered and surrendered.

Eighty thousand, six hundred and forty minutes since her devotion had torn the family apart. 

Poetic, wasn’t it?

And in those four million, eight hundred and forty-eight thousand, four hundred seconds, so much had changed. Nothing ever remained the same, did it? Like the facets of a diamond or the kaleidoscope of the stars, Olive's complexities were ever unfolding. a mother. a lover. an exlover. a packmate. a traitor. a damned woman. a vestal prophet. Who she to say it was worse — or better?  Who was she to make any choices at all? The woman was a facade, powered by the gods; they filled her and moved her body and spoke in her voice. They used her as a host; but oh if she wasn't the most willing of hosts.

With the family's assembly with Sirius only a few days away, Olive soon realized that it was all too much for her to process alone — and she knew she certaintly wasn't experiencing this alone — and even though the druid had no right to claim the surname Svartell [as she once had], she still sought out her king.  He was the only one who ever understood. The gods only punished.

Approaching the den in the warm twilight, Olive stepped silently and waited, tongue bitten, waiting to see @Dakarai materialize in the darkness.