Hushed Willows And I won't help but stare at every word

backdated to nov 27 @Andraste

The trek to the Land of the Willows was both longer than expected and remembered; his memories were seemingly skewed, perception of distance and time unreliable. Even the land itself offered little insight as to where he was, the sights different and the scents hardly brushing a memory, let alone taking hold. There was little more he could do than blindly follow the woman, trusting in her that she may take him back to where life itself began for the masked beast.

Eventual spotting of the dancing trees alighted something within him that he could not name; it was a feeling unheard of, something felt so long ago that he once wondered if it ever existed at all. But alive again it was, bubbling up inside his chest and pouring out into the external realm by way of a deep, drawn-out sigh: “It has not changed much…”

 

And it is the low sigh of the seraph that the maymaid drifts upon, glad  (in her own wilting way)  to delve amongst the quiet of this very place of natal nostalgia for as long as he wished to linger; however farther he wished to roam.  "No,"  she murmurs, dispelling for now the urgings to flit to the tomb of her midwife and those cradled lovers.  "Changed it has not, to ze eye. I may only wonder how much else has, otherwise."

Epitome of patience; the then-herbalist would await for the stilling of his state of mind without qualm or query.

Eros could feel himself slipping away, slowing dragged under the weight of his memories as they all came flooding back; he could see the face of the woman who birthed him, the woman he vowed to never again refer to as his mother. Her hatred was felt the second he was in her womb no longer—or, perhaps, he may have felt it even before that fateful day. Yet despite the lack of love provided by that woman, the phantom still found himself drawn to the willow trees. This land, despite everything, was home once. It was the first home he could remember having, where he once had a brother and a sister to waste his days away with.

But that was years ago.

“Did you ever know a man named Stark?” he asked, turning his head to face her. “This place belonged to him once.” Although she knew not of Marauder’s Keep, that didn’t necessarily mean she didn’t know of the man that once led it; the pack could have fallen whilst he still remained, loyal to his claim. Although, something told him that he was being naive to assume there may be any real possibility.

Too naive, just like in his youth—it irked him.

“Ignore me, he was from a time long ago,” added the man, shaking his head dismissively. “Tell me about those that came after—the group you spoke of before when I asked about these willows.” A pack he knew nothing of, filled with wolves he never met, living in the place of his birth.

The first request would remain unheeded, it seems;
she has never heard of a Stark, nor of the Keep which had presumably been the core of his own claim. But the hauntress aligns herself at the messenger's burnished ribs; momentarily captivated by the melding of autumnal and frostkept hides; speaks a tad somberlike throughout:  "Elysium was a haven, as much as I have known  —  and I fear to say that I know very little of its beginnings, or as to how it came to its end."  Pressed him into an absent, almost aimless promenade; argents resting into the lampglint gaze.  "I had ze privilege of attending only one of their festivals, last springtide. It was there that I met one named Olive  —  one of ze leading druids, you ken  — who would go on to become my ... ah, midwife,"  halfsights flit from the serpah's own, then; the same flush felt when the boy Seámus had listened to her first failure of motherhood.  "It has felt an age since I have been here. Even longer since I have seen ze faces of those I once knew."

Chords dwindling into some manner of silence;
and she is wearied for it; rests the shorn cheek but for a moment against bittersweet shoulder.  "What were ze willows like, for you?"  Perhaps he has told her two times, already, and four times more; yet Andraste cannot recollect as clearly as she would like to. Not at the moment.  "There is a grove, in my Court. It is not your birthing place, yet ..."

A haven, where festivals were held and those unknown met; it was different from the home he once knew, perhaps more welcoming. Yet, he wondered if that openness may have been the cause of their downfall—he thought to ask, only to hold his tongue, uncertain how delicate of a matter it may be. He believed himself wise to have not questioned her further as the relationship between the bird and former leader was revealed; a midwife to the woman, likely having formed a bond of unbreakable ties. “I did not realise you have children,” he admitted, voice growing apologetic. “I hope I haven’t kept you from them for too long.” Although, if such a great span of time stood between her last visit to the willows and now, he wondered if the children were still dependent on her at all—and the potential for that made his queries bolder.

“What happened to those that you knew?” he asked, curious. Were they now all gone from the wilds, just the same as those he once knew? “If you don’t mind my asking.” He would not force answers out of her—he was in no position to do so, nor was he the type to act so discourteously.

Eros was taken aback by her sudden touch but he did not pull away, although he did avert his gaze to focus on the nearest willow. “These willows were a prison, at first,” he admitted. “The woman who birthed me was not a caring wolf. I believe she hated my siblings and me even before we were born. But…” He could not help but smile, thinking back. “She was the exception. The others were kind, from what I recall. And this place was always beautiful.” Perhaps it was that beauty that lured him back, the desire to see the willows one last time unbearable. One last time…

“Are you offering me a place within your home?” he asked, giving his attention back to her. It was rather forward of her, he noted, but the invitation was not declined. Although his reason for travelling back to those mountains was to find his former home, he knew the second he stepped foot back into the embrace of the willows that it was not where he was meant to remain, not a single ghost lingering to drag him down with them.

Quieted;
for now, Andraste simply rests against the graceful figure of the seraph; listening with lashes heavy to marred cheek the voice that thrums throughout the vessel of him and catches betwixt her spry ribs. Listens still as he tells her of how the very tranquility of this trendiled place had once been some manner of cage; waxes plain of a mother who had been exceptionally unkind amongst all others; does not yet heed his prior enquiries, and only hums in prolonged quiet as he then enquires of her own invitation.  "I like to think that a mind such as yours would be a welcome addition to those within ze Vale."  The leveled fairness; the cooled intellect; the independence of reason;  "I cannot blame you, rather you would wander, of course."

His choice, yes;
and in time, perhaps she would tell him the many truths that she had felled upon the clouded yearling with; if not here, in this place of dead and desolate things.

A welcome addition. He pondered her words, her invitation—was his presence amongst them truly something acceptable? Was he ready to give himself to another wolf’s land, beneath the rulings of this woman? For so long now, he lived his life as a wanderer without a home, free to come and go as he saw fit. He travelled from one land to the next, meeting those he enjoyed the company of—some he once questioned if he could ever leave the sides of, a devotion to them sneaking up and taking hold of him. Yet, time and time again, the phantom cut ties and continued on his way, leaving with hardly more than a whisper of parting: I’ll see you again soon.

Aging was a curious thing, however. As the years went by, he wondered for how long he might be able to keep up this act; how long could he continue to wander, aimless and purposeless, until it broke him? Perhaps it was time for a change, to allow himself to form roots within a land unknown—perhaps this could be a reason to stay.

“I think I would like to join this vale of yours,” he decided, thoughtful. “I cannot remember when last I felt at home somewhere. I would like to see if your home could become mine, too.” There was little for him to lose, one way or the other.