#faespring

[nadaimh]

(   @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  ?   ❜

he asks   :   why have I never seen softness like this,     why have the years grown so long  ?        when was it last I had seen a flower  ?        his eyes do not watch her,     the trees do instead.        ❛   I still bear the scar from that day,     as my presence marked a scar within you.        mo  stór,     they will carve   a grave for both of us   and against my will shall I lie in it.   ❜

[nadaimh]

WATCH  HERE  AS  TWO  HANDS  ARE  OUTSTRETCHED  AND  THE  SPACE  BETWEEN  THEM     grows thinner and thinner until they disappear entirely.        the world is between each other here     —————     why not feel   such an ancient thing   breathe down fir trees like the noonday  ?        (   life and death meet in this space   like a tryst   where they shall argue over antitheses and belonging and never kiss.   )     his steps create a careful trail of red leaves as if he had burned her handiwork down to twigs and rot,     a  vision  of  what  they  will  become,     and he makes no sound.        his teeth feel too sharp for his mouth,     his hands too clumsy and feet weary.        such  a  pretty  thing     —————     he sees creatures roam in the forest and pretends to know   what desire feels like,     even after being hollowed out by time and sorrow.        an arrow notches in the space between a breath but his bones creak the note of the taut string in response.

in the shadow of the sun,     he scents roses and blood and things that live,     that will live.        grace and youth and beauty     —————     what else have you stolen from me  ?          ❛   forgive my indiscretion,     mo  stór,     am I trespassing in your territory  ?   ❜          watch here as two hands interlace their fingers the way branches entangle themselves in one another,     unrelenting and furious   at each other and themselves for choosing to love.          ❛   or are you,     in mine  ?   ❜​    ​    /​    ​    @faespring​

[nadaimh]

is your favorite band one deerection?

I wanted to respond with a joke lyric from 1D that had like, ' my dear ' as a lyric to replace with ' deer ' but the fact I can recall none or google any properly is basically the response to this

[nadaimh]

(   @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.

the fox extends a hand     —————     curled,     coiled,     and the tilt of their head shimmers the lights above them silver in his hair   :   a  tether,     an act of love.          ❛   alleviate me of this burden,     if you please,     and  deny  me  a  dance.   ❜

[nadaimh]

this could be us but you're not singing opera in my woods yet

[nadaimh]

-puts a flower crown on their head-

[ tears it out of my head in a flushed anger ] [ the flowers grow back because I have a crush on you ]

[nadaimh]

are you a deer on the streets and a wolf in the sheets or is it the other way around

whatever you want me to be, mo shíorghrá ;)

[nadaimh]

how's your wingspan

give or take 837 feet ;) why ;) you think it's a measure of something else ;)