Post by Shhasow on Jun 9, 2011 2:06:51 GMT 10
Title: Torn
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1202
Prompt: Rejection - Prompt #44.
Summary: Both are torn apart by the other.
--
He was not here.
Sarra paced the small clearing where they had met a mere four months ago. The antler tine pressed imprints into her hand where she clutched it tightly. She didn’t notice the pain, just as she didn’t notice the tears streaming down her face. The roiling emotions in her heart made such sensations insignificant.
He was not here.
They met every night in Sarra’s dreams. Every dream began in a deep, overgrown forest, birds chirping and bushes rustling as small animals darted around. She walked a thin path to a little patch of grass by a river, and she waited by the small circle of burnt-out embers until he emerged from the shadows. Even in the daylight of dreams, Sarra never could catch the moment he appeared. A space empty one moment held the large form of her friend the next.
At least, Sarra thought they were friends. Weiryn seemed open enough in her dreams. He shared what it was like to be a god, and she told him what it was like to be human. The god had agreed to meet with her at the fall equinox, one of four days in the year that he could cross the barrier between the divine and mortal realms.
Yet, he was not here.
As the small fire burnt down into smoldering embers, popping gloomily in the summer heat, Sarra could no longer deny that Weiryn got lost (ha!), or mistook the time (she still had the antler). And who could stop a god?
No, it was time to admit the truth.
Sarra Beneksri was rejected once again.
--
“Weiryn, god of the Hunt, I beg, no, I supplicate that you come to me tonight.
“Drat it, I mean, you may visit me in my dreams. We can talk a little, and you don’t have to explain anything. Not that I wouldn’t love an explanation for your absence.
“Fine, I give up. It’s been three weeks. I know you can tell some mortal time. You didn’t have a problem before the fall equinox. Just come and talk to me, Weiryn. Please.”
Weiryn flinched, and the deer, spotting the twitch, took off. The two had played this game for long enough that any movement caught the male deer god’s eye and sent him fleeing.
Grumbling, the Hunt god settled his bow on his shoulder and shoved the arrow back into the quiver. He already felt guilty - a sensation he decidedly did not like. He wasn’t even sure that gods were supposed to feel that emotion - and the wasted hunt made him irritated. The deer god Rannoch and he had a friendly rivalry, and thanks to this distraction, the four-legged buck had fled into the dense undergrowth.
Tracking, while not impossible, would be lengthy, tedious, and Weiryn was simply not in the mood.
Sarra’s sweet voice sounded sad today. Often her prayers had a hint of anger.
Weiryn, heading along a barely-there path leading to his cabin, snorted in amusement. That was rather an understatement. Beltane night, some few mortal weeks before, he’d received a blistering ‘prayer’ that would have irritated him if he hadn’t felt so guilty.
Of course, feeling guilty made him annoyed at himself for such a human emotion. He was two hundred years old, by Father Universe, far too old to have his heart sink in his chest and that uncomfortable clenching in the pit of his stomach.
The child upset his balance, made him remember his human roots. There was no other explanation for how the god of the Hunt found himself haunting the dreams of a mortal child. Even less so for his inexplicable enjoyment out of the activity. No, he was too close to Sarra - to the girl.
Which had been the entire reason for playing truant on Beltane. Which had led him to now, with a mortal child praying to him every few hours, and emotions long deemed unnecessary filling his chest.
Avoidance certainly wasn’t working.
Weiryn had decided that if he disappeared on the girl, she’d forget about him and he could return to his previous, noncomplicated existence. Sarra - the girl might be sad for a while, perhaps even despondent - for she was a small girl and they were very emotional mortals, he thought - but she’d return to whatever it was that mortals did when they weren’t bothering gods.
Weiryn paused as the whisper of a prayer came to his ears. He hoped - and cursed himself for hoping, another human trait! - that it was a hunter, a trapper, anyone other than a certain little girl.
“Weiryn, god of the Hunt.” Another prayer from her. The god felt his heart throb. He could hear the tears in her words. “I apologize if I offended you in some way. We don’t have to meet if you are busy, or if,” she paused, then forged ahead, “If you are just tired of me. I, I would understand. I’m used to it, to people making promises. If you can, please come to me once more, just to say goodbye. I’ve never had a friend like you.”
The slight pressure of the mortal bequest left Weiryn, and he gave a long shuddering sigh. And he’d thought he couldn’t feel any worse.
The Hunt god leaned one broad shoulder against a tree, moodily contemplating the tears of Sa-the girl, and why they affected him so much, why they made him feel mortal. The intelligent decision would be to let her be. Tears would dry up, anger would abate, and what seemed so important now would become a blurry memory and fade into obscurity.
Perhaps, with her presence no longer stirring up mortal thoughts in an immortal mind, Weiryn would no longer feel the anxiety tensing his shoulders that increased with every passing day and unanswered prayer. Perhaps he might also live without the confusion at his own delight at seeing her face, and his inexplicable sadness when he left. Such emotions made no sense. They served no purpose, were distinctly ungod-like, and bestirred memories that he’d long since buried.
Yes, he’d leave her. Forever. Leave now, before he grew fonder of the impetuous mortal, and she of him.
But then, he’d never feel that creeping warmth of pleasure when she spoke his name in a prayer or dream. He’d never feel the rush of blood to his cheeks when she teased him, or complimented his antlers as was her wont. (She’d always been fascinated by them, and Weiryn’d been relieved that his skin tone made blushes difficult to notice).
He’d also live without those shining brown eyes intently following his every movement, as if by staring, they might take in every detail. And her sweet, delighted laugh would be consigned to a distant memory, remembered only with vague fondness that it happened, and sadness that it was over.
Perhaps, perhaps he owed her an explanation. Why, after a hundred years of strict avoidance, he had emerged from his self-imposed exile, why he had agreed to meet with a mortal after he’d forsworn his roots as one of them.
Perhaps he’d share the story that only one other being, divine or not, knew.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1202
Prompt: Rejection - Prompt #44.
Summary: Both are torn apart by the other.
--
He was not here.
Sarra paced the small clearing where they had met a mere four months ago. The antler tine pressed imprints into her hand where she clutched it tightly. She didn’t notice the pain, just as she didn’t notice the tears streaming down her face. The roiling emotions in her heart made such sensations insignificant.
He was not here.
They met every night in Sarra’s dreams. Every dream began in a deep, overgrown forest, birds chirping and bushes rustling as small animals darted around. She walked a thin path to a little patch of grass by a river, and she waited by the small circle of burnt-out embers until he emerged from the shadows. Even in the daylight of dreams, Sarra never could catch the moment he appeared. A space empty one moment held the large form of her friend the next.
At least, Sarra thought they were friends. Weiryn seemed open enough in her dreams. He shared what it was like to be a god, and she told him what it was like to be human. The god had agreed to meet with her at the fall equinox, one of four days in the year that he could cross the barrier between the divine and mortal realms.
Yet, he was not here.
As the small fire burnt down into smoldering embers, popping gloomily in the summer heat, Sarra could no longer deny that Weiryn got lost (ha!), or mistook the time (she still had the antler). And who could stop a god?
No, it was time to admit the truth.
Sarra Beneksri was rejected once again.
--
“Weiryn, god of the Hunt, I beg, no, I supplicate that you come to me tonight.
“Drat it, I mean, you may visit me in my dreams. We can talk a little, and you don’t have to explain anything. Not that I wouldn’t love an explanation for your absence.
“Fine, I give up. It’s been three weeks. I know you can tell some mortal time. You didn’t have a problem before the fall equinox. Just come and talk to me, Weiryn. Please.”
Weiryn flinched, and the deer, spotting the twitch, took off. The two had played this game for long enough that any movement caught the male deer god’s eye and sent him fleeing.
Grumbling, the Hunt god settled his bow on his shoulder and shoved the arrow back into the quiver. He already felt guilty - a sensation he decidedly did not like. He wasn’t even sure that gods were supposed to feel that emotion - and the wasted hunt made him irritated. The deer god Rannoch and he had a friendly rivalry, and thanks to this distraction, the four-legged buck had fled into the dense undergrowth.
Tracking, while not impossible, would be lengthy, tedious, and Weiryn was simply not in the mood.
Sarra’s sweet voice sounded sad today. Often her prayers had a hint of anger.
Weiryn, heading along a barely-there path leading to his cabin, snorted in amusement. That was rather an understatement. Beltane night, some few mortal weeks before, he’d received a blistering ‘prayer’ that would have irritated him if he hadn’t felt so guilty.
Of course, feeling guilty made him annoyed at himself for such a human emotion. He was two hundred years old, by Father Universe, far too old to have his heart sink in his chest and that uncomfortable clenching in the pit of his stomach.
The child upset his balance, made him remember his human roots. There was no other explanation for how the god of the Hunt found himself haunting the dreams of a mortal child. Even less so for his inexplicable enjoyment out of the activity. No, he was too close to Sarra - to the girl.
Which had been the entire reason for playing truant on Beltane. Which had led him to now, with a mortal child praying to him every few hours, and emotions long deemed unnecessary filling his chest.
Avoidance certainly wasn’t working.
Weiryn had decided that if he disappeared on the girl, she’d forget about him and he could return to his previous, noncomplicated existence. Sarra - the girl might be sad for a while, perhaps even despondent - for she was a small girl and they were very emotional mortals, he thought - but she’d return to whatever it was that mortals did when they weren’t bothering gods.
Weiryn paused as the whisper of a prayer came to his ears. He hoped - and cursed himself for hoping, another human trait! - that it was a hunter, a trapper, anyone other than a certain little girl.
“Weiryn, god of the Hunt.” Another prayer from her. The god felt his heart throb. He could hear the tears in her words. “I apologize if I offended you in some way. We don’t have to meet if you are busy, or if,” she paused, then forged ahead, “If you are just tired of me. I, I would understand. I’m used to it, to people making promises. If you can, please come to me once more, just to say goodbye. I’ve never had a friend like you.”
The slight pressure of the mortal bequest left Weiryn, and he gave a long shuddering sigh. And he’d thought he couldn’t feel any worse.
The Hunt god leaned one broad shoulder against a tree, moodily contemplating the tears of Sa-the girl, and why they affected him so much, why they made him feel mortal. The intelligent decision would be to let her be. Tears would dry up, anger would abate, and what seemed so important now would become a blurry memory and fade into obscurity.
Perhaps, with her presence no longer stirring up mortal thoughts in an immortal mind, Weiryn would no longer feel the anxiety tensing his shoulders that increased with every passing day and unanswered prayer. Perhaps he might also live without the confusion at his own delight at seeing her face, and his inexplicable sadness when he left. Such emotions made no sense. They served no purpose, were distinctly ungod-like, and bestirred memories that he’d long since buried.
Yes, he’d leave her. Forever. Leave now, before he grew fonder of the impetuous mortal, and she of him.
But then, he’d never feel that creeping warmth of pleasure when she spoke his name in a prayer or dream. He’d never feel the rush of blood to his cheeks when she teased him, or complimented his antlers as was her wont. (She’d always been fascinated by them, and Weiryn’d been relieved that his skin tone made blushes difficult to notice).
He’d also live without those shining brown eyes intently following his every movement, as if by staring, they might take in every detail. And her sweet, delighted laugh would be consigned to a distant memory, remembered only with vague fondness that it happened, and sadness that it was over.
Perhaps, perhaps he owed her an explanation. Why, after a hundred years of strict avoidance, he had emerged from his self-imposed exile, why he had agreed to meet with a mortal after he’d forsworn his roots as one of them.
Perhaps he’d share the story that only one other being, divine or not, knew.