(no subject)
The silence was blessed.
The twins were asleep and Eostre was sitting at the kitchen table with an old copy of the The New York Times on the table. A cup of tea was slowly going cold at her at her elbow. It had been a long couple of days, and she wore dark circles under her eyes. She wasn't used to sleeping alone.
She hummed to herself and turned the page. Horoscopes. She pursed her lips and trailed her fingers down the columns. Two years. Two years she'd been human, and she still didn't know what month she's been born in. Lion, scales, the virgin or the two faced bitch? Posiden had the sea, dear Mithras had the bull, but where was her rising sun?
She sighed and tangled her fingers in her pale hair.
It had been easier when they braided their hair with brittle dead leaves, red and gold, and burned the kings for her, in the winter. It had been easier when the spring had come in on the west wind and the smell of smoke, when she had worn a grown of green leaves and spring flowers and the snow had melted where she stepped. Shakespeare never realised, but Titania had to come from somewhere. She had been beautiful, and terrible, and duly feared.
Eostre bent her head and wiped a single tear from beneath an eye the exact green of ripening corn.
The twins were asleep and Eostre was sitting at the kitchen table with an old copy of the The New York Times on the table. A cup of tea was slowly going cold at her at her elbow. It had been a long couple of days, and she wore dark circles under her eyes. She wasn't used to sleeping alone.
She hummed to herself and turned the page. Horoscopes. She pursed her lips and trailed her fingers down the columns. Two years. Two years she'd been human, and she still didn't know what month she's been born in. Lion, scales, the virgin or the two faced bitch? Posiden had the sea, dear Mithras had the bull, but where was her rising sun?
She sighed and tangled her fingers in her pale hair.
It had been easier when they braided their hair with brittle dead leaves, red and gold, and burned the kings for her, in the winter. It had been easier when the spring had come in on the west wind and the smell of smoke, when she had worn a grown of green leaves and spring flowers and the snow had melted where she stepped. Shakespeare never realised, but Titania had to come from somewhere. She had been beautiful, and terrible, and duly feared.
Eostre bent her head and wiped a single tear from beneath an eye the exact green of ripening corn.