#faespring

(   @faespring​   )     —     don’t you dare speak to me like that.

HE  WISHES  TO  ASK  IF  SHE  HAD  EVER  SEEN  THE  BONES  OF  TREES,     ivory locked like links around each other.        he asks   :   have you seen anything die,     have you seen yourself hold one of those arrows and bleed until your veins turn green  ?        these are the games of pixies and children,     those who keep secrets   between the backs of teeth like animals   when they find shelter in the winter,     and the laws of his land fetter his roots like ash.        though he has never known anger like this before   ;   such old and buried emotions rising through their graves   of  earth - scent  leaves   and cold.

❛   I will speak to you however I wish,     spring  huntress.   ❜        wolf teeth,     elk crowned,     a thing amalgamated   even in fury.        ❛   you have not earned my respect and so I will not give it.        what use is your patience and virtue if we shall hold each other   at the point of a sword,     if to fell one is to fell another  ?        we  are  not  trees     —————     we are not things that can grow back once they die,     and I have lived long enough to know that.        have the seelie taught you nothing  ?        have the jaws and sharp things of your court not wounded you  ?   ❜

(   @faespring​   )     —     you’re always so right.   it must be such a burden.

THE  WOLF  DOES  THIS  SECRET  THING,     ONCE  EVERY  FULL  MOON,     the kind of moon that shields the darkness and is enough to cast a white,     pale glow over everything   :   it laughs.        it will tilt its head back,     bear its teeth in a smile that could be kind to the rabbit     (   could be dangerous   to the rabbit   )     and laughs     —————     a chortle,     a guffaw,     the pride of an ancient thing,     the comfort of sound.        what a gorgeous,     frightful song,     that sound  !        and it is indeed a secret because   wolves  are  not  known  to  laugh,     not in kindness and victory,     or the maliciousness of ironic despair.        perhaps it will be known to all others   at the end of the world,     but in   this  small  moment,     smaller than the gaps between leaves or the footprint width of hares,     is hers.

❛   believe me,     mo  stór     —————     the more centuries go by,     the more being right is not a thing to strive for,     but something that shall become   natural to you.        whether you want to or not,     you  will  be.   ❜          but it is a burden too he wishes will not erase the fawn in her step,     the  love - in - a - mist  of  her  eyes,     the rose tinge of her hair,     with   thin streaks of bouvardia   shot through it like stars.          (   he would say,     he finds it beautiful,     the way spring had never been beautiful to him,     and it would be her turn,     the doe,     to laugh and say,     a jest of flattery will not find you favour far  !   )

the revelry here is a hybrid,     a  chimera  sensation,     with all manner of fair folk eclipsing and following each other   like suns and moons   :   familiar snow - tipped lashes and white furs,     the crinkled crowns of leaf   from his own court,     the warmth and delight of a summer sea breeze,     peonies and lilacs and hydrangeas and daffodils   of every colour conceivable.        yet faces in this space are no longer faces,     but an assimilation of them.        it is here that   the  fox  meets  the  swan,     clothed in ivory and masked in it like she had been   a lake’s fair daughter.        it  is  a  tale  many  do  not  know  of.        the fox is bronze in colour,     dull and subdued,     all for the black gloves and wicked glint of the eyes,     and bows low with their graceful limbs and softened features,     alert and vigilant   ;   because the fox,     for time known and unbeknownst to him,     has desired the swan,     though pinprick forests and vindictive waters   do not allow their meeting.