shivering pre-Samhain
The Lady sits shivering near the hearth, wrapped in a cloak while the cold stormwinds blast through the room. The only light is that from the crackling fire and the occasional flash of lightning, splintering through the room from beyond the wall of stained glass. She speaks low, only just above the sound of the storm, as her eyes gaze dully into the flame.
I’ve been hiding indoors for most of the last week, avoiding the real recognition of the holiday. Now I realize it. Now I can see those ghosts that have been flitting fast through my mind, fast enough that I could let myself be endlessly distracted that I not see them. But not today. Today I can see them, they are so close and move so slow: each one a threat, like someone riding past too slow, watching with hard eyes.
solace
She reads the words, twice, thrice, and finds more solace in each reading. But will it ever be enough?
in the Darkling Grove, listening with the trees 