the rape of autumn

[deer_eyed]

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[fae_mother]

[ Although she is not her daughter in any literal sense of the world, Ruis's heart belongs to Deer-eyed Lydia. Being a Guardian of the Mound means that she protects, uses the magic of the earth to shield and to hold, to cradle those who are defenseless, to never bring harm. Although her heart mourns, she does not weep. The world has offered enough tears for Lydia's plight. Instead, she looks to offer strength (the sturdiness of an elder tree's trunk, the steadfastness that only the longest bloodline of the Fae could bring). She, herself, a bereaved mother, Ruis understands more deeply Autumn's sorrow, sees the spark in her belly to be both a blessing and a curse (another life, to replace what was lost, but still so unbidden, so raw).

Singing softly, she bends over sleeping Lydia, not looking to rouse her from her brother's slumber. Her lullaby is both for mother and child and tells of the beauty of the earth -- how it flourishes and fades and then dies, only to be reborn again out the dust of the last. A careful hand presses to Lydia's brow. ]

Know peace, mother Lydia, [ she tells her. ] Know strength, for the nameless one.

[rape_seed]

[Little spark, little sleeper, rings with songs. Strong mother, sad mother. I will be small, I will not be too much weight. Little one will love for love. So much love to share, mother, little ones only need a little. Tiny spark coos back the sounds it hears. Peaceful sleeping, mother. Mothers and daughters, quiet and safe.]

[fae_mother]

[ Ruis smiles, sad but sure, to hear her songs whispered back to her. A hand hovers over Lydia's body -- the rise and fall of her chest, the sacred churning of her belly. When she speaks to the little ember, her voice is singsong. The exile is still a nursemaid of the glade and will serve as Autumn's midwife if necessary. For now, however, she sings a different song, one woven for babes still on the vine. ]

You embarrassment of riches, you glut of blessings. Look now how your mother's cup has o'erflowed. The flowers will bloom and show painted faces in the wake of all that you bring. You surfeit of grace.

[rape_seed]

[Flowers, all the flowers born in between, weren't meant to be. Burbling discontent. Sadness, the tears of many little things who know mother's pain. Mother will know too. Cup of anguish, cup of grief, forced to drink.]