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This is the way which a girl becomes a woman / this is the way which a woman becomes a wolf.
Erin Moran ♱ "940 Main Street"
Whence first there came the storm, the arc; built wooden and strong and sturdy; hurtled the water to put to safety all two of each. Two hare. Two horses. Two children.
Whence first there came grief, Nabi Yi was there borne; wiley brown locks and purple-blue eyes; witchy premonition and delicate pearl finger tips. This she lost herself in: like the same woods her cursed humours would drag her into, proclivities for running snaking around her boots, her tendency into the wayward status of her sisters binding her to this temple; old and crumpled and weary, with magnificent coliseums that still shone reverent and marbled. Echoes bounced between of diadem and sanctity. Of where misguided prayer should go to the heart; a magnet to this—
Come a woman, saintly, with heaven's eyes in her own; who's enchantments and soft muttered incantations turned man to pig, pig to man. She gave the child elixir and generosity, ladled her with resentment's catapult, and anger's defence.
Protection, she mutters, dear child. This is what I offer you. Circled ouboros no longer self devouring, but still searching to bite its own tail; still, somewhere, nipping to restart.
This skin sloughing revenge, Circe called it timely; she said it would come in behest, that once before when the oracles spoke to her; she learned of things man could not alter. That the world, destroyed to nature, would be revived by its same touch as well.
Morality is not so thin that it is so easily torn. Nabi held this in the days she spilled browning potions into wine chalices, when she drew her knee to shin and knife to throat.
Circe would raise her, hand around hand, knife around knife; and whisper love in place of contempt. No more prodding, no more asking what can the little wolf do? Instead, the bitter taste of blood; sanguine and salty, took her tongue in place of her own bitten down word. Taught by the poison's purgatorial pursuits; and ingested by the ways she would learn to do better than scavenge; to find solace.
No man would come near Nabi Yi, not unless they should cower for all their wrongdoings. For all their anguish, all their sin, all the ways they did not listen when she said no. No. Not unless they are willing to admit it was the batted wing that curved it's scale around the knife; that took it to her Mother's chest, and her Father's then after. Not unless they are ready to see man turn to pig. Pig to man.
