Crying-wind makes a ceremony of marriage through a blessing of words and a feast. A wedding, with guests. A celebration.
Iglux̂ desires none of it.
This is no time for fear. Though it gnaws on the sides of her body, it has not yet reached her heart. Cen’s eye is grey—grey-blue and full of her winter.
“I’ve told you. I’m no good at waiting,” she jokes. But she knows too much, can shut herself off, and it would lead to indifference— that slow death. Iglux̂ is not ready to die. She surrenders to revel in the nuance of blood currents, in the sacred spirits, the exquisite trembling of affection or flight.
“If you mean it– marry me, Cen. Tonight. Now.”
There need be only two.
Slewfoot breaks off into a canter, not towards the saatsine but where the herds graze in the depths of night.
Cradle my waxwing’s heart.
Iglux̂ desires none of it.
This is no time for fear. Though it gnaws on the sides of her body, it has not yet reached her heart. Cen’s eye is grey—grey-blue and full of her winter.
“I’ve told you. I’m no good at waiting,” she jokes. But she knows too much, can shut herself off, and it would lead to indifference— that slow death. Iglux̂ is not ready to die. She surrenders to revel in the nuance of blood currents, in the sacred spirits, the exquisite trembling of affection or flight.
“If you mean it– marry me, Cen. Tonight. Now.”
There need be only two.
Slewfoot breaks off into a canter, not towards the saatsine but where the herds graze in the depths of night.
Cradle my waxwing’s heart.
