fairy tale 100;
059. The thunderstorm
Their mother clutches Cynric close against her heart, smooths the short crop of his hair, matted and damp. Their father holds the lute, shifts to allow Simeon to lean comfortably against his side. It’s difficult to hear the rich quiet tones of the instrument, the crackle of the fire, the hum in their mother’s throat under the patter of rain on the tarp above their heads.
So Cynric shifts to sit better, lets out the first few strains of an old familiar song. Simeon shifts in mirror, catches up in just a few bars.
They still have the same voice.
Their mother clutches Cynric close against her heart, smooths the short crop of his hair, matted and damp. Their father holds the lute, shifts to allow Simeon to lean comfortably against his side. It’s difficult to hear the rich quiet tones of the instrument, the crackle of the fire, the hum in their mother’s throat under the patter of rain on the tarp above their heads.
So Cynric shifts to sit better, lets out the first few strains of an old familiar song. Simeon shifts in mirror, catches up in just a few bars.
They still have the same voice.