Silver Creek yea, though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death
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Ooc — mercury
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there was something of the resurrection in new beginnings. though not dead before, the chance to start over was a chance at another life, and was that not resurrection, on its face? addison knows that she will only die once, but with each step into this universe so far removed from everything she has ever known, she breathes new existence into her lungs, her soul. the air is crisp and light with the autumn odor all around--dying things: grass, leaves, trees. even more striking, then, that addison should live while all around her perishes. the odolfs are chosen; they come not as voyagers but as conquerors, to claim a stake in the land their father had once called home. 

she should be at peace, and yet, she frets. soon, she will have lived two years, and her womb is still empty. she has failed the world, failed her family. . .failed the very foundation of nature, to remain childless. there is a restlessness to this rebirth of hers, a knowledge that should she not whelp in the spring, she may as well be a rotting young plant -- withering away, no legacy to speak of. she is not growing any younger; time does not run in reverse. for every season she is barren, she grows more and more useless. 

no, addison will not stand to be useless. the odolf witch will take the seed from its source and carry it to term. life will bloom within her, grow strong and healthy, and she will provide the world with sons. her purpose thus fulfilled, she will either die. . .or live to see another cycle, to feel her heat overtake her, to let a man spill himself within her and then, several moons later, she will bear fruit once more. on and on it will go, until god takes her from the earth. but until it happens, she will not be satisfied. 

the woman dips her head to lap at the creek, her polar eyes moving slowly, taking in the new atmosphere. thirst thus slaked, she licks the droplets from her chops, salmon-pink tongue lingering over her lips as she stands, deep in contemplation. the woods are alive with sound, but all she can hear is the squalling of infants, still slick with birth-fluids, scrabbling hungrily for the choice teat.

addison feels a twinge in her groin as she imagines them latching on, falling into contented silence as they drink their fill. 

oh! if only!
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