Something about her changed at his response —the wheels behind her eyes began to turn. And with the assurance of one intimately familiar with his person, she spoke again.
'Tùilin?'
Before the dance, the wars and the waves, the old god's reckoning had manifested in the mundane. Tùilin was too young to remember the before, but his brothers were not.
Gone were the days when treasures willingly revealed themselves. Winters bore a more biting cold now, summers blistered. Lost things became harder to find, knots trickier to untie. Bees buzzed a little fainter.
Gone were the early springs when men wept after felling their first stag. Harvests yielded less. Apples soured. The sky was no longer as resplendently blue.
But as his name spilled from her lips, echoing through the corridors of a thousand days, he had his first taste of those wild forgotten magics.
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery
PoetryMy suicide had been two years in the making when I decided not to follow through at the last minute. Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. This coll...
