𝘿𝙀𝙑𝙊𝙐𝙍 | 𝙈𝙞𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙡 𝙊'𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙖

4| 𝘈 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘬

𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜:

𝘌𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘢𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘴, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩.

    The rhododendrons are the first to breach the thawing snow cover, carpeting the mountains in a patchwork of pinks, purples, and yellows. When the sunlight washes down the sides, it feels like a second dawn unfurling over the slopes, one born from soft petals and golden pollen clouds. The crisp spring air filling your lungs as you watch the sunrise takes away some of the fatigue cramping up your limbs.

    On the first day of spring, you decide to weave a gigantic web as per Orb Weaver traditions. Spring has filled your spinnerets with an overabundance of fluid, so much so that they resemble ripe gooseberries on your forearms. It was only a matter of time before the pain grew too much to bear, forcing you to empty them. Weaving complex webs turns from a hobby into a necessity overnight.

    The southern breeze that had eaten away the vestiges of winter also holds within its bosom a promise, one that its fragrant currents whisper in your ears as they tickle the nape of your neck. It sends you racing across the boughs bearing tufts of green and dormant floral buds, making your heart beat louder in your chest, filling your veins with a rush of unbridled energy that you couldn't quite explain. It had you scouring the forest for a secluded spot that had easy access to the game, freshwater, and shade before you eventually settled on a clearing near a pool fed by a spring.

    The fresh silk that shoots out of your spinnerets is lustrous, smooth, and strong; its colour is a healthy pearlescent white that glows when light touches it. Your arms wrestle the flower-laden boughs of the apple trees into a wooden frame to support the weight of your webs and bind them together. Your fingers tug, twist, and pull the strands that you shoot, your hands shuttling back and forth as you weave your tapestries. Days merge into nights, nights soon bleed into dawns. Sleep remains a distant reward for your efforts. Your straining tendons and aching muscles cry out for respite but your frenzied mind refuses to pay heed.

    All the while a singular image burns in your mind bright like the Northern star in the night sky, an image that had kept you warm through the bleak winter cold.

    Miguel's smile. You could almost see it in your mind's eye— the widening of his beautiful crimson eyes as they saw the webs you had woven for him, the confused flutter of his eyelids, the gentle blush creeping over his cheeks, the grazing of his fangs over his plump lower lip and the shy grin that would deepen the dimples on his cheeks. A darling daydream you had so lovingly etched onto the chambers of your heart, one that you hope to realise soon.

    The truth was that his story had cut you deeply, and the wounds had bled into your being over the winter.

    Miguel deserved so much more than what he had received. The way that his tribe had banished him for a crime he didn't commit and the way his first love had cast him aside like he meant nothing to her had left you raring to have a go at them for the disrespect they had heaped upon him.

    You could understand why Miguel defended what little he had and loved so fiercely; if leftovers and scraps were the only things you received, you would eventually learn to fight the carrion birds too. He did not want to have things be reft from him because he was too weak and naïve to protect them, be it land or power.

    Despite everything, the spider did care very deeply, treasuring what little he had like they were smooth quartz pebbles he gathered from a stream. The way he would put himself between you and the flames of the bonfire and cooked your meat for you, the way he would rush to your aid without hesitation when a hunt got risky, and the way he would listen to you patiently as you talked about your past, his presence and company had healed many of your wounds.