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Current Mood: sleepy

[open post -- moving day]

At the meeting the Men had Ragnelle met a god, which proved more interesting and fortuitous than she had expected from a lot of silly chatter (important worm education aside). She is now waiting for that god to arrive and help her build a new house, which means being out in the open where he can find her -- in this case, she's back in the cafe fitting as many mushroom tarts as possible into her pockets.

The winter cold has made her sleepy and slow, and she misses the dormouse coziness of her nest. She could spend the season inside this fey house, but she doesn't trust it for all its abundance, and the sooner she has a home outside to sleep in until spring the better. The god had better show up soon.

Entry tags:

prose

what you were born to be

All the folk have memories that are long when it comes to grudges and short when it comes to everything else; Ragnelle, despite her mixed blood, is no different. She hasn't felt much of any pull to Camelot since she left it to come to this place. If anything sings in her and reminds her that she isn't home yet, it's Inglewood.

Nevertheless, when she hears a child babbling in the woods, her ears prick. The voice is familiar to her.

She drops down from her tree to the leaf-littered forest floor and goes looking. It doesn't take her long to find her son. He's three, a chubby, beaming boy with hair as ruddy as his father's, but his eyes are hers. When he sees her he shrieks "Mama!" and runs into her arms.

( Read more... )

Current Mood: busy

Entry tags:

[open -- nest]

The nest Ragnelle has been building in the woods needed a few more blankets now that the temperature has dropped a few more degrees, so this morning she was in the mansion raiding cupboards. Now she's outside in the lee of Nightingale's summer house with a basket of comforters, cutting them into pieces with a little knife so they'll be easier to incorporate, like leaves in a squirrels' nest. The time indoors has warmed her up, and her hands move quickly with the knife.

Entry tags:

poetry

Witch-wife

She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun 'tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of coloured beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.

--Edna St. Vincent Millay