(no subject)
A new year, a new loss. Her heart, her heart. She's done with her weeping but, today, she's still wearing white, a hem that drags and buttons against her breast as she walks along the sand, leading Lorica by the reins. Ygraine races ahead, pin-wheeling and spinning on the sand with her little arms thrown out. She's too little to really understand loss, and she's lost al ot in her little life, so Jenny counts that as a blessing.
And here she is, Pretty Jenny, mourning for a son who was never hers in the first place.
A woman like Jenny, a woman with a flickering flame where most women have only their heart, is not dimmed by grief but it dooes make her very tired. She stops and leans against the horse's neck. Once, Nimue sat and combed her fingers through a Queen's hair, and she told her that she would never have children that she carried herself because she was a sea without a shore. All women had a little of the ocean in them; men were sand, and drifted from heart to heart.
Bran was gone, and Jenny missed him. Ygraine came running to her and she lifts her, settling her on her hip. Another child not of her womb, but hers, all the same. Slowly, she walks down to the edge of the water, her hem soaking immediately, silk wet and clinging to her knees as she walks into the water and stops, with the waves lapping around her thighs.
It's easier to feel closer to Nimue, in the water like this.
It's easier to remember and honour what she's lost.
Ygraine cooks and cheers and Jenny bends slightly and scoops a little water with her hands, flicking it and watching how it catches the light.
A deeper meaning in that.
And here she is, Pretty Jenny, mourning for a son who was never hers in the first place.
A woman like Jenny, a woman with a flickering flame where most women have only their heart, is not dimmed by grief but it dooes make her very tired. She stops and leans against the horse's neck. Once, Nimue sat and combed her fingers through a Queen's hair, and she told her that she would never have children that she carried herself because she was a sea without a shore. All women had a little of the ocean in them; men were sand, and drifted from heart to heart.
Bran was gone, and Jenny missed him. Ygraine came running to her and she lifts her, settling her on her hip. Another child not of her womb, but hers, all the same. Slowly, she walks down to the edge of the water, her hem soaking immediately, silk wet and clinging to her knees as she walks into the water and stops, with the waves lapping around her thighs.
It's easier to feel closer to Nimue, in the water like this.
It's easier to remember and honour what she's lost.
Ygraine cooks and cheers and Jenny bends slightly and scoops a little water with her hands, flicking it and watching how it catches the light.
A deeper meaning in that.