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cailisairgid) wrote2009-02-01 07:42 pm
cailisairgid) wrote2009-02-01 07:42 pm
Entry tags:
{narrative} it is in her breath that the wind does blow
It's hard to know the when in the nexus, where there are so many places and so many times that you might as well simply choose one for yourself and be done with it. Still - she feels the spring coming, and she feels the weight of time spent without. Humans call the day Imbolc, among other names; Nuala, with no true point of comparison to work from, judges it to be near enough here.
There's really only so much she can do, in modest accommodation at a nexus inn, but she does what little there is. Candles aren't hard to find nor to acquire, at least; she considers and discards the idea of a proper fire, instead placing these simple candles of varying size around the room she and Nuada share. She doesn't know where he is, precisely, while she works at this; she could if she wanted to, trusting him to be near enough for her to do it. For some reason she doesn't expect to find him straying far from her side in the near future.
It's her mother that Nuala honours, with the reassurance of springtime that even through their long separation, Brighid will hear her. She works her threads by the warm light, hands falling into familiar pattern and knowledge.
When Nuada returns, she sets aside her needles, picking up comb and ribbon instead. Heat might not bother them as it does others, but he will keep his hair out of her firelight (and be close by, this one she can rely on to understand what and how she remembers). She'll read to him while she braids his hair, and only tug if he doesn't hold still.
There's really only so much she can do, in modest accommodation at a nexus inn, but she does what little there is. Candles aren't hard to find nor to acquire, at least; she considers and discards the idea of a proper fire, instead placing these simple candles of varying size around the room she and Nuada share. She doesn't know where he is, precisely, while she works at this; she could if she wanted to, trusting him to be near enough for her to do it. For some reason she doesn't expect to find him straying far from her side in the near future.
It's her mother that Nuala honours, with the reassurance of springtime that even through their long separation, Brighid will hear her. She works her threads by the warm light, hands falling into familiar pattern and knowledge.
When Nuada returns, she sets aside her needles, picking up comb and ribbon instead. Heat might not bother them as it does others, but he will keep his hair out of her firelight (and be close by, this one she can rely on to understand what and how she remembers). She'll read to him while she braids his hair, and only tug if he doesn't hold still.