theo is small, is the thing - tiny warm weight against her chest, and molly wasn't this small when she was born, molly was wailing like the world had to listen to her, something like fire in the shrill of her voice, dissolving into laughter as the months went by, honey-slow. but theo is small, and something in jester... aches (the feywild calls to her, siren's song, the furrow of artagan's brow, you're always running, essek says, hot like acid and angry, so angry, angry at her - again), something in her settles too. mama said jester was this small too, but mama had no one and jester has -.
where is she running? meruna counts her little sister's fingers, one two three four five, stumbles over six and seven, smiles when the baby sighs in sleep. they're both small in the way hope is, bright too, flames, magic, dreams. runechild. her perfect baby. molly's found her (his) tarot cards yesterday, has painted moons all over the walls - it'll wash, and if it doesn't, it'll be a reminder forever, either is good, let her draw. outside the window, the flutter of wings. blink and you miss it and they'll both be older, they'll both take flight too.
theo turns, fists little fingers into jester's nightgown (and mama, i can't count now, the pout she can't help but want to preserve in the pages of her sketchbook, ruffles her hair instead, you'll count them later, and then you'll teach her how to do it too, won't that be something?), was this how her own mother felt? bright bloom in her chest, the overtone of worry, knows through experience that the world won't be kind to them, her daughters, but they'll find it for themselves. but for now they're little, and look to her like she can keep them safe from anything. she can. she will. she's felled monsters and would be gods and travelled through time to get here, to this moment, and... and maybe now she can stop running.
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